Overnight, with little warning but a small stitch
turning in your side, and a bit of blood where blood
should not be, you have entered the land of the unwell.
of hushed voices and bedpans clinking, IV stands that
resemble coat racks, and curtains behind curtains,
of paper shot glasses and silent shuffling feet.
You are wheeled from one cool room to another,
quietly and efficiently, the ghost-flicker of ceiling lights
passing like the lines of a highway leading nowhere.
You count backwards. You repeat your name until it sounds
like something foreign, far removed from its source.
You listen, while the faceless man on the other side of
the recovery room coughs and moans all night,
talking, in fitful sleep, to the mother who is not there.
You wonder if your daughter will visit, wonder what day
of the week it might be, and whether you will be
able to write a poem without a window, something
you hadn't realized was essential all this time.
That's where the world is, after all, the one you wish to
return to, in spite of it all; and if it's not exactly new,
or all you had hoped for, it will never be the same
as it was when you left it only days before.
