slurs her words like alphabet noodles
left overnight in the soup. The morning sun curls
into a ball at her throat. This is not the hospital room
she visits in dreams. The doors swing open:
never anyone she knows. She's a kite
tied to the IV pole. The bed goes up and down
the way a tree branch adapts
to wind direction. She's trapped.
When she sleeps, she forgets the falling.
Oxygen flow murmurs her away.
The nurses bring her back to the odor
of latex. They lift her body. A massage, a sponge
bath, a diaper change, a new sheet.
She wakes up. She fast-forwards to an earthquake.
She keeps flying back to the neon crucifix
on the wall, the thorn between the ribs,
a fear of falling that screams her mouth open.
Arlene Ang is the author of four poetry collections, the most recent being a collaborative work with Valerie Fox, Bundles of Letters Including A, V and Epsilon (Texture Press, 2008). She lives in Spinea, Italy where she serves as staff editor for The Pedestal Magazine and Press 1. More of her work may be viewed at www.leafscape.org.