Christopher Gaumer
Appendix to Marriage
I purchase an apple in the well-lit hospital café
on the border of death. Doctor takes the wheel.
The fruit smells antiseptic yellow.
She’s going under. I take your hand, old lover.
I am ever the captain’s husband, good with an hourglass,
wiping down a low boy. Your combustible organ fears
finally get their due. The old bunny sailed right,
into a storm. From a death-shaped hospital hallway,
I dash off familial missives: still under. less appendix.
a tube down her throat. I carry a jelly jar
under my coat. Nurse calls you lucky—questions,
outside, the starboard, in you. What would she want?
The answer is easy: more blankets. Secret snacks
survive inside a body. Go now, in love, nurse.
Where love is an hourglass, I love. You wake up,
calligraphy face and a slow winding signature.
It’s Saturday. They won’t let us keep it. I asked.
All the way home, holding an empty jelly jar.
Christopher Gaumer reads “Appendix to Marriage”
Christopher Gaumer’s poetry and creative writing appear in The Southern Review, Sugar House Review, No Tokens, Water~Stone Review, McSweeney’s, Best Microfiction, and elsewhere. Chris writes and directs films and music videos. He is a founding Director of the Randolph College MFA.