Wards Poem by Iman Mersal

Usually the windows are gray
and splendid in their width
allowing the bed-ridden
to view the traffic below
and the weather outside.

Usually the doctors have sharp noses
and eyeglasses
that secure the distance between them and pain.

Usually relatives place
flowers in doorways
seeking forgiveness
from their future dead.

Usually unadorned women
walk the hallway tiles,
and sons stand under light fixtures
clutching x-ray sheets
affirming that cruelty could fade
if only their parents had more time.

Usually everything recurs
and the wards are filled with new bodies
as if a punctured lung
is sucking away all the world's oxygen
leaving all these chests
without breath.