E.W.

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.