Jessica Arconti
What it feels like, when I
see you
bleeding, breathing, seething
air, through plastic pipes.
Imagining your life, I’m
inches
from your woolen socks. Fluid
seeps from your brain. But
your heart
pumps a kind stranger’s blood
through your veins. Doctors
whisper,
clipping, pinching, reinforcing,
swabbing,
holding, pulling, pinning,
sewing, hunching,
squinting as I stand by, for
the first time, learning.
Breaking their backs to mend
your life, preserving
who you are—one wrong move
your memories could vanish.
I
gape at the end of your bed.
I
wait, your life dangles by
their
finger stitches. Somehow
those who don’t know you
know how to piece You
together—even when your life
scattered
like marbles, collectively
hitting the floor, only
to spin away everywhere.
What regrets you may have had,
people you
remembered, memories in the
past, what you
wished you could keep and
knew you would miss. I
am cracked at your feet. They
patch you together, unearthing
your fossils, like archeologists.
I could only be
silent me, witnessing
your second chance.
And they push
me away,
make me wait
alongside
while they
surround you
in blue to grab
your fingers
in theirs.
Whispering
Cory.
Louder.
Cory!
squeeze my
hand.
Can you hear
me, Cory?
If you
can hear me
Cory,
squeeze
my hand.
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