My Blog

Daffodils
bloom, fevers flash, nebulae hover,
pulse
white and yellow. Can you smile dawn and dusk
and pretend it doesn't hurt? The nurse
stops
a moment her whirl,
all
too perky, asks if you glitter,
oh organ donor, before they wheel you
to surgery. The anesthesiologist,
wishes
upon the shining gears of heaven,
squirts
the eternally lit sixteen candles
of
clear liquids into the IV catheter.
Are
you a machine or Aphrodite's birthday cake?
Can they turn your lights off and on?
Are
you the point of lethal injection?
Someday
you'll forget, thank God. Newspaper?
Percolator? You wake with a funny
steam
where
the words for the opportunity
rise
from your nose, then you are asked
to sign something, the signature
comes from having your eyes opened by bells
and
isn't yours, and you wake and say yes,
machine, night shirt on pillow,
emergency, and red,
I'm
alive, yes, I get to try and figure
the
city, for long hours, without seeing breakfast
all over again, I know
the
gumball, doodlebugs, buzz bombs, and rope
of
what you mean. You say, okay, this is good.