breakable bodies

skin curled into the fragile lining of an eggshell
               you lie on the floor,
               of the oilfields general hospital,
hand wrapped like a membrane
around your shoulder.
I watch the pain crack you open,
yolk spill down the halls.
               I watch yellow brand itself between your lips.
the nurse asks for your name and faces type with a slowness,
               look for records of your past.
get off the floor, they say,
but you barely move.
               your limbs, shoulders: mechanically alien
I’d never known that fathers and daughters
come from the same,
bodies. I imagine the pain,
spilling through you,
               hear it sliding down bleached halls,
               crawling like frost under blue gowns
               and cold skin.
I try to show them that the pain is a clamp around your tongue,
that less than a year ago,
                              e-coli snuck into your veins,
                              a red shadow, stalking blood cells.
they take you away and for hours, I wait,
                              in the bathroom.