Art by Susan Wilkinson
Shortbread
Hannah Page
Every day I add flesh to your sketch of me.
I tend to repeat the same stories because I can’t remember
what I’ve already told you, like the time I woke up
in a Mexican hospital or the time I glued myself together
with gold lacquer. But we are tangled veins,
and this is heavier than any of my forgetting: a side effect
of the electroconvulsive therapy for which I had my longest
hospital stay. On Valentine’s Day the orderlies gave us
little heart cookies and some patients saved them for when
their partners visited. I ate mine: LOVE in puffy pink letters
on a red background. Icing got on my white shirt.
I still wear it with the stain.
Hannah Page
Every day I add flesh to your sketch of me.
I tend to repeat the same stories because I can’t remember
what I’ve already told you, like the time I woke up
in a Mexican hospital or the time I glued myself together
with gold lacquer. But we are tangled veins,
and this is heavier than any of my forgetting: a side effect
of the electroconvulsive therapy for which I had my longest
hospital stay. On Valentine’s Day the orderlies gave us
little heart cookies and some patients saved them for when
their partners visited. I ate mine: LOVE in puffy pink letters
on a red background. Icing got on my white shirt.
I still wear it with the stain.