The feet –
lowered toward the floor. The gurney –
a trampoline above the empty pool of the past.
The musicians leave
the philharmonic of his breath
one by one – quartet, trio, duet with the wife.
On the way out he is startled to notice
that his emaciated ass has left a crimson stain on the sheets.
He’s not the only one surprised.
The silences compete before the medical exam,
the surgeon finds no hemorrhages.
Years with neither life nor death are at hand.
Then at the museum I see an installation:
Clinic’s hallway. A pale boy with averted face is trailed
by drops of blood. There is no wound.
I see my Dad.
Author: Marin Bodakov
Translator: Katerina Stoykova