MASHA KOYAMA

Naiads

slow heartbeats of birds; the black-necked goose on the pond; snowing at the hospice, a snapped foam cup in the laundry hamper; blades of grass stuck between the ice; carrying snacks up in the elevator; twelve measures of rests to rise, one two; skipping beats in the heart; the chambers forgot to pump; waiting motionless on the quarter-note unpulsed; and naiads hanging above the mop bucket; and green walls like green granite linoleum; casting a shadow so long and slow across the floor from the clock to the bed; and on a huge loop around the whole hospital walking; around a fallen willow they were dredging from the pond; and stepping past your locked room in the hallway; waiting for you to open up to me; to fix the mistakes in my abstraction of you; you leaping into my life; to know how you feel; the size of your hands; the weight at which your soul hangs in space; the chord of your voice; sweet elevator music; dinging on arrival; the sound of it all slowing to rest, and the doors on a sensor parting