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c o u n t i n g t h e n u m b e r o f a n g e l s a t t h e h o s p i t a l
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F R A N K M A T A G R A N O
"In rabbinic writings, there are at least a dozen angels of death..."
I counted three last time:
two on smoke break
near the door on York Ave;
name tag affixed
to wing, and upstairs,
the third, room 915 B,
the shadow of a ruffled
feather over grandma's diseased
breast, one long flourescent bulb
above the bed, a box of white
tissues from the grocer,
a half-empty glass of juice
on the tray, mom asleep
in one of two visitor chairs,
her sister in the other,
bent over, pulling up the tongue
of an untied shoe.
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