The Pub

Trillium

Jana Papp

We are surrounded by a pale gauntlet of branches,
dry and endlessly unyielding. The honeysuckle
tugs harshly on the sleeve of my coat,
I tear one away—
the clean-stripped skin of the thing is alive.
Over your head, a hawk swoops,
kyrie, kyrie to the muttering
of saw-toothed leaves.

A little farther—we emerge into the wasteland of our woods—
an uncomfortable emptiness of hip-high weeds and white poles
marking the gas line. We cross through the sour musk of fungus,
puffed and pungent,  nearing the low, dark beds
where trillium leaves part calmly,
spreading their red-capped whorls over the drab earth.
You turn to see if I am following, your head scarcely discernable
in the darkening twists of branches.

Small sounds grow in my eardrums:
the harsh rush of the nurse’s pen on the clipboard,
a crumpled jacket brushing against the plastic bedrail,
the murmuring of conversation in the next room.
I avoid your face, staring at delicate webs of tubing
that cradle your head in an alien embrace,
I can’t follow you here.
I reach out for your hand—
the tips of your fingers were never this smooth
the translucence of your jaundiced knuckles,
bright amid the tilt and swell of bedclothes.

Jana Papp is a senior English writing major from Nicholasville, KY. She keeps a bear skull in her room. At least, she thinks it's a bear skull. Let her know if you can identify it.