They watch us eat, quarrel, make love, sleep. ~ Of All the Highrises, Cathy Park Hong, Engine Empire

In these sparse rooms, grief hangs like a bland painting. The ones with heavy shoulders, they
work shaking hands through their hair. The small ones, the ones with no words for loss, watch
the busy doctors’ feet moving toward, with, and then always away from us,
pulling at a parent’s sleeve, pointing at the vending machine, cramming fists between lips—eat.
By the receptionist’s station, a woman with crossed arms grimaces at her partner, mid-quarrel
but unwilling to make
a private dispute escalate into a display of temper. A white haired man whispers of his love
for an absent wife. My nails press to my palms, each stab a command to wake from your sleep.