Through the Viewmaster
by Melinda Ruth
Runestone, Volume 1 

Through the Viewmaster

What they don’t tell you is that memories
only fade around the edges, leaving
behind vivid images, crisp recollections

tinged with the smell of bleach permeating
white walls, plastic tube shining
as it curves, punctured

puffy flesh, EKG beeping continuous.
The tan foundation hides the paleness,
She looks like she’s sleeping. Piercing

the pit of your stomach, you. Watch
the strongest man you’ve ever known fall

apart, bloody knuckles, vomit in grass.
The electronic voice on the phone,
The number you are trying to reach has been

disconnected. Yet you keep the voicemail locked
in your cell. A baby blue lazy boy no longer offers
comfort, hyacinths on marble. The empty seat

at your graduation, the short fat Douglas
fir, pine needles draped in ornaments
and tinsel, reflective. Song stuck

on repeat in your head: I’ll have a blue
Christmas without you.