Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

The voice just to the right of me requests.
The voice just to the right of me explains,

     Those people can't find anything.
     I need more blood.


Until the nightly rounds, I feel compelled
by chaos dioramas on my tray:

     Remains of lunch,
     a thing of orange marmalade


The voice ekphrases to the right of me—
     Burgundy...no, brighter!
                                        ...or cherry-red.


I sip my coffee.

     I sit up on my bed.