Soul Hook

by Al Ortolani

Pop lies in Room 217; tomorrow

drapes like a curtain between us.

He sleeps with both hands crossed

against his chest. I try not

to believe in omens, but voices

whisper through the hospital, central

air shifting the ceiling tiles,

an escaping soul, spirit rapping.

Once, a hook was fastened to

a dying man's throat, a thin metal finger

curved above the chin, over the mouth,

to catch the soul's

invisible escape, a sudden gasp

of breath, a flattening of lungs.

Nothing is familiar anymore

except the beep and click of monitors.

Pop stirs momentarily, opens

his mouth as if to speak. I slip

a shard of ice onto his tongue,

touch Chapstick to his lips.