Black shadows lie in strips across
the empty white hospital corridors at night,

and gray shadows move under the nurse’s feet,
shaped like the curve of her flowing body.

There are shadows under the closed doors
and in the waiting cracks of open doors,

ghostly shadows in the rooms where no one sleeps,
and rippling shadows in the rooms where someone dreams.

Heavy, perfumed shadows linger on the bed
where a baby girl will sleep forever,

and purple shadows rest under my brother’s eyes,
and on the pillow beside his suffering face.

The one shadow I can’t see lies over my heart,
sometimes dull, sometimes cutting like glass.

When I listen to this shadow, I feel afraid
of pain, of sickness, of sorrow — afraid of fear.

I feel afraid of being here, and not being here,
afraid of not knowing anything, or knowing too much.