The Arrival of Medical Records

By Alexandra Daley

for my father

A stack of papers – evidence of time
dispensed alongside those like myself:
bodily fluids collected on one side, products
of misassembled phrens.  And there, standing
in the Italian Renaissance of our kitchen, I remembered
what you said: She has no remorse for her actions.
I know it was a lie not unlike the one I mouthed four years
back when I denied sliding the brailled plastic
to counter unbalanced emotions – the one
that signed my admission papers to the remedic place.
I’m sorry I never put needle and thread through
my blood pump, fastening it to my cotton-covered arm
for you to see.  I was hardened by tempered cables
no longer transmitting a signal – a mannequin.
Believe me now, I always heard the dull, quick sound
beating beneath the floorboards.

***

Alexandra Daley, a twenty-six-year-old Chicago native, is a freelance writer, editor, and bookkeeper who lives in Charleston, South Carolina. She is currently writing a poetry of poetry she plans to finish in 2014 and has been published by Dead Flowers: A Poetry Rag, Emerge Literary Journal, JMWW, Lingerpost, and The Oklahoma Review

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