Behind Lace Curtains

I do not take the gauze.
At the hospital, the nurse offers bandages; 
bleached translucent revolutions, particles of protection
and wants my patient permission to position each unwind 
over everything.  
All of me.
Well, to be fair, she started with the wound.  A tender intention.  After all, it was bleeding out, droplets down to the linoleum.
But I’d been there before.  Recalled the way she’d shrouded me back then, beginning at the gash, then wrapping
up
and
down 
my arms,
my legs,
my feet,
my head,
hands,
fingers 
and toes.
My torso.
Until I was mummified, inhaling through the bleach 
and peeking from beneath a brow of
what--
Before I knew, she’d covered all that too.
And while it sure was true, just like she said, yes, I did no longer bleed,
I also did not see, nor hear, nor eat.
There was no air for breath to sing.  I could not touch nor taste.
Wiggling was hard.
I couldn’t bathe.
It smelled in there.
So now I do not take the gauze.
I accept the nurse, of course.  Her voice is soft 
and it seems she does not fake the grace. 
But I do not take the gauze.
She brings it in (it's still her job) 
and I squint my gaze with gentleness,
unroll the spools and hold the gauzy frost before my eyes.
Turn to face the window 
without a word.
Then we sit, as one,
and watch the sun shine in
behind lace curtains.


The prompt "behind lace curtains" comes from A Writer's Book of Days.