Sestina

It must seem like a while ago –
this waking up to a pounding head
and the rain pouring down in sheets –
telling yourself to look away
and not knowing what to feel
or what to do with all this time.

You can’t quite recall the last time
you determined it was alright to go,
and now you wonder how you feel,
what’s growing in your head,
and why you want to get away
from the ever-changing sheets.

They’re writing down on sheets,
and conversing all the time,
in a sort of silent way,
declaring when and where you can go,
what happens to your head,
and how it all should feel.

We wonder what it is you feel –
while tangled up in sheets,
we’re testing out your head,
and passing all the time
until you’re free to go –
we talk your fears away.

A daughter-in-law shouldn’t dress that way,
she shouldn’t look like a nurse, you feel –
your son married an engineer six months ago!
Yes, you’re laughing under the sheets,
but we begin to fear that this time
the joke is all in your head.

The swelling is all in your head.
It comes then goes away,
and has given you a falser sense of time,
made you forget the comforting feel
of periwinkle-blue waterbed sheets
and the places you meant to go.

You don’t understand the pain that you feel.
You never saw the glass break into sheets.
You can’t even remember deciding to go.

02/20/2003

Author's Note: This poem is about my mother, who got into a severe car accident on Super Bowl Sunday, sustaining some serious head injuries. I then wrote this poem on Feb. 20, which was the day she ended up getting out of the hospital and coincidentally her birthday, too.

Posted on 04/24/2003
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