That Long White Slender Noise by Ryan Quinn Flanagan


I run my fingers across my back
over the shirt
and the fabric is such that it
makes that long white slender noise
of complete strangers pulling
a blade over some stupid disagreement
and opening you up,
I wince with remembrance
at the sound,
that way you bunch up into a
huddled cave of yourself
because of the pain,
knowing the light headedness
is from sudden loss of blood
that will just get worse
the longer I lay there
and someone screams just
before you go out,
that is the last thing I remember,
a single scream like a firecracker
going off,
and then I am on a Jell-O diet
sharing a room with some old timer
who can’t speak
and hangs on the call bell
like a spider monkey
from dying trees;
all the nurses hate him for not dying
when they think he should have
and seem to love me because I don’t make
any trouble at all
which is exactly what I tell the badges
when they come around
asking for a description or something
else that may be helpful.


© 2019 Ryan Quinn Flanagan


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Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, BlogNostics, The Rye Whiskey Review, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.


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