With her eyes closed
she has been staring at the lamps on the ceiling for days.
By now they must look like Sufi dervishes
whirling in white
The lady in the next room cannot speak
but she can sing.
My grandmother can do neither.
I was wondering
if she could hear her too humming in the mornings
when the giggles of two passing nurses entered the room
While they floated by, they watched
as in a movie
a friendly doctor emptying the building’s fire extinguisher
on our warm hopes.
They exited the room through a closed window
with dust on the sill.
A layer of cremated time
that I decided to get rid of
with my finger streaking cleanness
one line at a time.