Clipboard,
cubicle,
consent.

At my elbow:

pens on chains,
next-of-kin declarations,
the pale green wash
of the intake monitor—

that exhausted pastel
prescribed for mammals.

Once
burial
became a crime.

Now
a barcode.

The first body
I argued for
was my brother's.

A woman whispers
her brother's name
into the plexiglass.

I assign her
a number
and a verb
that means not yet.

Some part of me
still distrusts
clean hands.

I've been
appealing
ever since.

Here:

I collect signatures—
administrative sediment.

Six untouched coffee cups
cool to the colour
of old bandages.

Everyone arrives wanting
water,
another opinion,
mercy.

The ward hovers
between mint
and extinction.

Between admissions,

the ventilators
keep another vigil.

I imagine
dust returning to dust

without prior approval.

Even the dead
wait their turn.

The living
remain in the queue.

I write the names carefully.

Each letter—

another handful
of earth.

—Cara Waterfall

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