Porshe Garrett
Fiction Editor
In the room of white machines,
my father stuck out sharply.
The white curtains as flimsy as the gauze
wrapping his skin, the white bed and thin sheets,
where he lay, the tray holding white milk
and ashen eggs he had no strength to eat.
There was no escaping the view
of my father’s warm brown skin,
sweating and feverish,
glistening under the harsh light.
The room’s landscape always drew my eyes
back to him.
At her place beside my father,
perhaps noticing I made no progress
on my fractions homework,
simply doodling as I was
to fill up the vacuum
of blank space on the page,
my mother gave me some quarters
and sent me off to find a snack.
I pondered the vending machine
at the end of the hallway,
its gaudy colored bags of chips and candies,
spotlighted by fluorescent beams,
and selected my purchase
the cheapest item available,
so I could get two.
My sneakers squeaking
against the linoleum flooring,
I crept back to my father’s silent room,
where he lay with tubes up his nose,
snot dripping to his chin,
his skin paler, as if the room
was leaching the melanin out of him.
Approaching wary to his bedside,
as if my father was an animal unknown to me,
I placed one bag of bright fruit gummies
like an offering of gemstones
on his tray, untouched and white.