Your purpled, parchment forearm
lodges an IV needle and valve;
your chest sprouts EKG wires;
your counts and pulses swarm
in tendrils over your head
on a gemmed screen: oxygen,
heart rate, lung power, temp
root you to the bed—
Magna Mater, querulous, frail,
turned numerological vine
whose every brilliant surge
convolutes the tale,
translates you to a life
shining beyond our own:
Come back to the world
we know the texture of—
demand your glasses back,
struggle into your clothes,
lean on me as you walk
into the summer dark
where you'll find once more your breath
and scold the wasted night.
Above us, satellites vastly wink.
Laugh. Come forth.
|
| From Departure: Poems by Rosanna Warren. Copyright © 2003 by Rosanna Warren. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. |
|
|
