Today I’ll sleep– comforter, flowered nightgown—dark beneath. At the hospital, three interns lifted sheets and peered inside me. One said, “incomplete;” I didn’t think it could be me, but covered myself with a sheet under the overhead light. Before then, alone, I tossed lingerie in the sink, the water ran around with a red flag wave. Outside my room the trees were filled with small birds and somewhere inside, a voice on the line said over and out. Something died, small plant in a hole, a ditch. Something else unraveled, threads, a roll of tissue or the newspaper— something else was wrapped up. Tuck me in and hold me like a child. Now that you’re at home with me please stay.