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.