Greenish limbs shove a thick tube past her teeth.
Viscous fluid gushes in
too fast, too plentiful, too hot
for the tongue, for the throat, for the stomach;
She has mouth, lungs, brain, guts and she can scream, scream, scream…
The screams gurgle around the feeding tube,
making her ears pop.
The Tending Hand doesn’t know how to listen.
Maybe another will hear me.
She readies a new scream, a justice seeking howl.
Bending her bruised neck,
she glances beyond the Tending Hand.
The sight strangles her will:
legs amputated above the knee,
arms skinned to the triceps,
bloody stumps in a golden boot,
severed hands in a white glove,
optic nerves erecting an eyeball bouquet in a glass vase.
She shuts her eyes
and the Tending Hand prunes and trims her pretty.