The morning after surgery,
everything tilts,
fluorescent light needling my eyes,
a monitor chirping out of time,
carts rattling past my door,
paper cuff tightening, releasing.
I drift between dream and interruption
as a nurse pricks my finger,
another counts my pulse;
the surgeon edges into view,
half-framed, already speaking:
you did great, all is well.
Words that hover then thin out,
like breath on glass.
I am only this:
present, alive.
The long, depthless quiet
let go its hold;
fear loosens
as morning gathers
in the corner of the room.