Only once in my life
have I woken
in a state of sleep paralysis.
I opened my eyes
to the sight of myself
on a perch at the foot
of my bed, her neck
bent down
in shadow, her eyes
white stones, her teeth
a string of gleaming slats
in space: this me
who was not me,
a mirror warped
and ossified. I tried
to lift a hand and wave,
could not move
my arm. And still,
as if she’d read my mind,
she waved back.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
In my room there’s
a cross on the wall
Jesus with pins in his hands
Below that, a strange painting
Of two people holding a giant fish
Their faces blurred just enough
To tip them into the uncanny valley
The walls are pale yellow where sun hits
Peeling eggshell under the windowsill
I’m listening to Lana’s new album
But skipping the preaching
Outside the window it’s
pure glory
Inside, the clock shifts minute by slow
Minute & each hour they take vitals,
Blood & urine & breath
The nurse tells me her daughter is 31
One year older than me
She asks how long I’ve
been sick
Her daughter’s in her eyes when I answer
She looks after me like a mother
& fusses when I react to medical tape
I have been sick three years counting
I am always counting
This collage of ugly hospital art
& needle sticks with too many tries
Aslam responds to my text
What is a water deprivation test?!
Since the unreal became routine
I keep forgetting to explain things
Anyways, how are you doing?
I’m feeling calm
I’m dreaming of Hollywood
Today sunshine is enough for survival
Tomorrow it may not be
But there’s always a new place
To shift my gaze
There’s always that kitschy wooden Jesus
& the clock that survives each minute
As it comes
Always a new painting to tell you about
& a new day with it
the
Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
