From the Archive: Jaime Forsythe (CAROUSEL 26)
He was in a home, had soft bones, paused
for days between thoughts, but knew when
every one of us was born. All those phone calls,
triple ring of a rural party line as the entire block
eavesdropped. Never knew privacy. Walls
thinned to curtains; his skin became transparent.
Blow-ups of his organs; amplified tune of his heart.
The nurse was a man. The nurse was his son, and his
grandson, and his best friend from high school.
The nurse snuck him chocolate, leaked lavender
oil from a pocket vial over his wrists and said rest.