Afterward, recovery. Behind every curtain a bed
with high rails. Bags swollen with clear fluids hang
like hibernating bats. A tangle of tubes and tendrils
reaching down to probe the body’s blind envelope.
Breech of flesh and bone recorded in jagged lines
that write and rewrite themselves endlessly
across a darkened screen. Your nurse, fluent
in a strangely cheerful language of soothing
and pain, pulls a long needle from the bend
at your elbow. We watch blood blossom,
then disappear under the white square of gauze
she holds in place until you settle into something
just this side of sleep. Beyond the curtain, restless
silence. A low murmur. The muffle of footsteps.
Then a sudden beeping, insistent but not loud.
Is it me? plead your now wide-open eyes. Is it me,
comes the chorus of voices from up and down
the corridor as if in response, is it me, is it me?
Todd Campbell is a speechwriter, poet, and mosaic artist based in Seattle, where he has lived for the past three decades. His poetry has appeared in Pangyrus, Reed Magazine, The Shore, Watershed, and elsewhere.
Image: “Baby Manual 5,” a found image
Pine Hills Review 