We got on well until it was time to remove
my chest tube. Then all those days in the hospital bed
with my pee container collapsed into a single point
of curiosity: the drain they’d installed after the reinflation
was to be withdrawn manually like a feeder cable
through the open wound in my left side.
And upon seeing my apprehension, her warm
bedside manner that always reassured turned
slightly teasing, like a big sister who’s ridden all the big rides
at the amusement park and wants to take me on them,
who’s tried all the hard drugs only once—
pressuring me, as I flail on the rocky cliffside, to just jump already.
At my questions—what does it feel like, will it hurt—
she insisted, it’s like a snake slithering out of your body,
it’s a weird feeling, hard to explain.
She attempted to quash a smirk. It’ll be quick,
she said, I’ll give you a countdown.
But a countdown didn’t matter, and before whatever it was
I said or did to signal the go-ahead,
no world of distraction was so great as when that
throbbing portal opened to its promise of pain.
Not the caffeine I’d had in me during the subway ride the day
I was admitted, the regular exercise and plenty of sunlight.
Not my nine-to-five job or its benefits package,
the email promotions and newsletters that came
faster than I could unsubscribe from them.
My very diligence was its own reward, and her
clinical empathy, however strained, was no prank.
Our dynamic was irresistible.
When I left the hospital that afternoon,
I saw the moon for what it was, with newfound hilarity.
Walking the cobblestones in my grip socks,
I queried every stranger, trust-falling into their arms.
