A Long Convalescence

It is the small things tell you you are home—

cotton sheets, linen clouds, Dutch rabbits

nibbling greens. It is close to sunset

when you remember why you went away.

Never again, I swear on the Bible

I hear you say to yourself as if no one

listens. Mama hurries the last crumbs

into a basket, sister sings her song.

However many hours He wore that crown—

that’s how long you lay anaesthetized.

A surgeon scrapes nerves and stretches bones.

A jackrabbit comes to blend in time

against tan grounds and cottonwood. Windows

hold a million trees full of ganglia.

Accept that for now you will be going

between two rooms—that one with a bed,

this one with a sink. Its grave porcelain eye.

 

 

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