In liquid dark we clung until the blazed
world broke to soak her brain cells out of place,
ventricles swallowing white matter
as they grew, until the lobe was unable
to stop sending the message compress,
and her muscles diminished—
so ministers slip a metal reservoir
between the muscle and skin of her abdomen
and grip the knurled handles
of stainless tunnelers, bullet-headed,
to make a thin space to her spine
for the catheter, which means to let down,
and whose end rests between two vertebrae,
beneath the theca, whispering to the Godhead
of the spinal cord’s protective membranes,
maters dura, arachnoid, and pia—
tough love webbing the air
with tenderness. I am never not praying
in the direction of her spine: mater noster,
let down your hair, pull us near—
and the conversation stops her muscles
from their constant clutch, and clench—
and from their hard time letting go.
by Mary Somerville McSparran
Mary Somerville McSparran received her MFA from Vanderbilt University and her MLS from Indiana University. Her work has been published in Image. As Curator of Manuscripts at the Vanderbilt Special Collections Library, she works to integrate poetics and primary sources through teaching, events, and exhibitions.
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