In a far corner of the hospital grounds

under the cover of a Moreton Bay Fig 

Merv from Palliative Care leans back

against their bench and propels a line of smoke up

into the dark canopy. ‘What’s new? I’ll tell you what’s new

we discharged a woman today

that’s what’s new.’

 

Iggy from Intensive Care

accepts the skinny-joint, eyebrows up.

Each knows exactly what a terminal diagnosis means— 

seen it so many times—

patient can’t speak, can’t move

is no longer in charge of her existence

is subject to an onslaught of drugs and tech 

that colonises her body.

The medical system has pointed the bone  

and is singing her to death. 

Iggy exhales and returns the joint. 

‘How’d she do it?’ 

 

Merv from Palliative takes his time.

‘Her sister brought in Bach. 

Said she wanted it played. Non-stop. 

Some of the other nurses

would turn it off ’cos they didn’t care, but I kept it on.

The woman woke up, sat up, got stronger every day.

Started telling everyone, I’m getting out of here.

And she did.’

 

Iggy from ICU accepts the pass.

Twitches his nose against the stink of spent fruit

and bat shit. ‘Bach, eh.’

Leans back, closes his eyes.

‘I fucking love those sisters.’