The cost of fruit keeps increasing

Examination lights. Examination lights. Guava she would repeat. Mouthed around the intubation tube, eyes looking through me. Through me. Week eight, a thin mixture of calories and for blood. For blood. Fruit hanging down. Hallucinations taste like vampire nurses formula drip through a nasogastric tube. Rice in the kitchen area reserved and comparing notes. Comparing notes. Last visits to ignore. To ignore. Guava guava guava. Guava guava. Timeless waiting room sleeping chairs. Making arrangements empty hospital rooms. Empty rooms. “You are not my mother. My mother.” In that ICU psychosis I learned scenes from movies. We had pastors and I sat silent. Sat silent. Empty cups. Minutes stolen. Charging phones. Underneath this heavy armor, my prickly pear dries.

Noemi Martinez is a queer femme gq[she/they] crip poet-curanderx writer, historian and cultural worker living in the militarized borderlands. Some of her art, poems, essays and creative pieces have been featured in Doubleback Review, TAYO, Resistance and Hope: Essays by Disabled People, Rest for Resistance, The Deaf Poets Society, Revolutionary Mothering: Love on the Front Lines and Stirring: A Literary Collection. Her Twitter: @hermanaresist.

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