By Wendy Werdan
Karen has a fit,
and drops to
the floor. Her face is
pale, empty,
and she isn’t breathing.
Her frame once flexible, tightens
and compresses.
I hold her
on her side, while she bridges
to an unconscious
world.
She looks possessed
as she bangs
her head
on the ground, and her
shoes dance
wildly.
Blood flows from her nose,
her glasses cut into
her forehead,
and froth dribbles out
her mouth.
She moans intensely.
Her red shoes slide off,
and then her body
softens.
Her words are unclear,
her faculties begin to
restore,
she is confused, has a headache.
As in Hans Andersen’s tale,
Karen’s heart fills with sunshine,
peace, and joy. My angel smiles
at me, and then falls asleep.
