NINES

“O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.”

William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act II, Scene II.

The music I used to hear dances
along my nerves. I sit quietly,
smiling faintly. As I dismantle

all evidence of the life I knew
I discover little lightning seeds
that spark across the chasm once named

Memory, and now just called Rubble.
Each day oscillates between what shrinks
and what expands, what I once could do

and what I can, sweet jazz and pounding,
a clock that crumbles into dry ash
or measuring cups overflowing

with uncooked rice and broken nut bars.
My cupboard is full of spice: curry,
fennel, marigold and mint, basil

and blooming. It’s a weapon: praising
what used to be, attacking what is.
Oh, there is so much to see unseen.

Cognitive Losses

Words
line up:
volunteers,
obedient,
eager, orderly,
prepared. Your question
drops, a flashbang
in my mind.
Wind blows
dust

Untitled

Walking or not walking, sitting
or not sitting. Forget running.

My heart doesn’t care. It flutters
like a butterfly with long slow

gliding strokes, then bouncing up/down,
tipped over in the wind, closing and

waiting, opening and coasting.
It flutters like a hummingbird

never at rest. There are flowers,
so many flowers, so many,

so much to do. Floating. Air borne,
weightless and whimsical. Silly

heart. What are you doing? And then
it rests. Suddenly. My son folds

his arms around me and doesn’t
want to let go.

Once More

The people returned to mortality,
as if they were little gods blessed with health,
and endings as well, of their own choosing.
The plague expressed a great concern at this.
The plague began to be alarmed, and turned
its eyes over the water and over
the air. The abundance of winds, excess
of waves, the drowning and rising of breath.
That’s all the plague wanted — new beginnings
rich with little luxuries, laughter, hope;
a chance to become something, something great.
All it needed was a torn thread tugged loose
here, and a trusting soul there, and someone
too tired to care. Thank you, the plague whispered.

Falling

“We’re alive and here, but we died, too.” RC, Person with Long COVID, April 14, 2022

Falling from the sky through the blue,
shrinking, or is the sky growing?
But the sky can’t grow, already
it is forever. Falling from
blue into treetops, into leaves,
as if atoms of awareness,
atoms with wide amazing eyes.
Falling through leaves, through air between
leaves, through light, through the trust of air,
falling through the cracks, through the thought
of breathing (as if breathing is
a memory). Somewhere there must
be a stopping point, an end. Breath.
Breathe. Fall. Let the chest fall. Exhale.
Inhale. The air does and does not
move itself. The air is hungry.
The body is hungry for air.
It is a kind of love affair,
the way the body and the air
both lunge and leap, both rise and fall,
grasping at each other as if
this is the true purpose of life,
narrowing to a pinpoint like
vision, like a trajectory,
the point where falling stops and then
eyes open, look up through the leaves
to that blue at the beginning.

Disability Budo

Four legs and a lump, a bump, thump.
Rhythm of saying, “You better
see me, this thing is hard metal,”
meditating on the fine art of
stick combat, designed for canes as
weapons. I’m pondering what I’d do
with my round-topped steel stool-stand-cane,
designing kata in my brain.

Today

Today was an okay day, a good day.
Today I woke. Today I wrote. Today
I joined friends to pray the morning blessings
and the afternoon (of course, virtually).
Today I remembered to take my pills
both morning and evening. Today I walked
the dog three times, twice into the front yard,
and once to the near corner of the block.
Today I worked, keeping notes of what’s done,
what I learned, and who needs to know.
Today I ate a banana, sandwich,
some toast. Today I drank a glass of juice,
a cup of hot chocolate, a quart of black
decaf coffee, a half gallon more of
electrolytes, and even more water.
I didn’t count how many times I went
to the bathroom, but it was not at all
an insignificant number. I was
shockingly liberal with salt, but only
as directed by a doctor. Today
I texted my daughter, my son, a friend
who sadly I awoke because I truly
didn’t know what time it was. Today I
received texts from all of the above, and
the pharmacy, and a different friend, who
celebrated being vaccinated.
Today I read three chapters in two books,
and uncountable social media
posts. Today I watched four short videos,
attended eleven online meetings
on two devices (some at the same time),
and missed two more meetings. Today I led
one small-in-numbers synchronous Twitter
chat. (I expect in ten years most people
won’t know what that means.) Today I listened,
and responded, sometimes relevantly.
Today, unsolicited, I shared new
data on the current uptick in case
counts, changes in documentation of
how a case is defined, news of the new
interagency task force. Today I
expressed judicious concern. Today I
received one email warning me I’ve been
exposed again to the disease du jour.
Today I blocked one person on Twitter
who said it’s bullshit that I’m disabled
now as an outcome of said dread disease.
Today I saw one actual living
person, in the flesh, my son, who lives here.
Today I scheduled five healthcare visits
or medical test procedures. Today
I walked nine hundred and eighty four steps.
Total. Today was a very good day.

Here

I am here, on the couch (again? still?),
the dark gritty / bubbling / swaying, sirens
strobing stripes on the curtains above.

I shiver under the arc of stacked books,
swaddled in sweaters and blankets. Light
from the phone glows on my shimmering face.

Across the rooms, in a corner of
a different window, I see the sun
rise behind black pines, so red, coal bright.

First published / posted with illustrations at Luisa Igloria’s Poetry Postcard Project as 05 April ~ Poetry Postcard Project.

Imagine

I am the oldest person
in the clinic waiting room
today. Can you imagine
that? I’m not that old, really.

An air high-five is followed
by nitrile-covered knuckles
meeting the skin of my own.
He likes my t-shirt’s slogan:

‘I need ammo, not a ride.’
“No one will EVER forget
him!” he says, sliding a sharp
in the vein at elbow’s crease,

“How could they?” “Good job,” I say,
and “Thanks,” he replies. “Can you
imagine leaving your home
like that? Leaving everything?”

I grit my teeth as he draws
the cannula out, “Press firm,”
he instructs me. “Yes, I can,”
I say, “I was a battered

wife.” His eyes meet mine. “I know
what it’s like to run.” He waves
his arm as if closing doors
behind someone. “Kids?” he asks.

“None then.” “But you got away.
That’s good.” “For one night,” I shrug.
“He threatened to kill my folks.
So I went back.” His eyes pop.

“Can you believe it? The cops
said they couldn’t do a thing
(legally) until he shot
someone. Did they think he’d miss?”

“Hard to imagine.” “Well, that
was before VAWA. Grateful
for VAWA.” I wrap my coat
around me. “Grateful for lots

of things,” he observes. “For sure,”
I agree. “Have a nice day
now.” I nod, tying my scarf.
(The sticker on it proclaims

that my disease-free status
holds for yet another day.)
“You, too,” I smile, hook my cane
on my arm, walk out the door.

Noticing

There it is, burst of green pepper

crisp, bright, gone. Or there, the faint whisp
of fresh lilac barely scented

even when I walk through clusters,
panicles bobbing against skin.

A smear of dates — brown sugar with
apples pressed with the weight of night.

Enough hot sauce to burn my tongue
so it can remember texture

and taste. Today we cleared cupboards,
and I rested. Walked. Rested. Scrubbed,

and rested more, fogged, unaware
of what was fading around me.

Glimpses between the yawning gaps.
I don’t know what I’ve been doing,

but it isn’t living. Not quite.