ON ACQUIRING A HALO

this new language that we learn
waiting in hospital corridors
the monotone of blinking machines
the rustle of x-rays and test reports
stacked one against the other
in a plastic bag that had carried duty-free chocolates
from Bangkok airport

in the darkness of an examination room
from the twitch in a doctor’s eyebrow
we gather what has not been said
pick up new terms
(and later, learn the spellings on Google)
marvelling in spite of a crunched-up chest
at how little we know
about our own bodies

outside
our identities as frightened patient and companion,
in a white card pinned to my lapel
that I have forgotten to remove
but perhaps what really gives it away
is the way in which we hold hands,
tightly, afraid to let go,
for who knows how long
it can be so.

a tangible halo around us
fashioned by unsaid words, unborn children and
places we haven’t been to yet
like a chalk drawing
in the shape of a dead person’s body
on a dank floor