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I am delivered, having lain down in death

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When she leaves the body, her spirit

flickers, mingling with the room, the lights,

the hearts of the surgeons and nurses.

When he drifts from the room, hovering somewhere

above loss and the journey, the senses slow and stutter,

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causing his spouse, child, friend—to pause.

The doctor fingers the scalpel and her consciousness,

questioning the light, too bright to be a halo,

bursting from the patient’s body in one fatal shot.

The nurse scrubs the blood, grit, life from his

hands, blinking as the watch, the hands, the spindles

and gears and electronic whisps are put on temporary hold.

When the body dies, the room stands at attention,

cosmic fireworks billowing from the mundane—

eighty-seven cent light bulbs, a subtle shift of light,

and the sterile face of time.