We wake not knowing what the hour is,
nor the one hour of sleep that came before
that felt like a decade, as if we’d missed

the world torn up then lovingly restored.
Our own names feel like welts between our gums,
our old lives shed and crumpled on the floor.

You take our little girl into your arms
and guide her to your breast, as slowly, health
trickles between the two of you and warmth

becomes your mutually protective shell.
The act of waking up has now become
the leaving behind of our cast off selves

to remember the selves we have become.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    May 02, 2012 @ 23:45:48

    Not yet the selves you have become…that will only become clear when you escape the confines of the hospital and return home.

    I don’t think you would have written poetry like this a year ago.


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