40 years ago
the night before Halloween
they let me into the frigid room
where they were keeping you
deeply sedated, your skin blue
and clammy, barely alive after
having trouble bringing you back,
with a wicked incision stitched
from collarbone to near navel
where deep inside a small device
ticked with every beat of your
ravaged heart. Tick. Tick. Tick.
How could you return from this
planned assault meant to prolong
your life with an artificial valve
ticking away the seconds?
You looked dead then, your face
waxy and ghoulish, a perfect fright.
And I, spooked beyond every scary
moment I’d known, felt myself
escape through my scalp,
hovering over the gruesome
scene. “He’s alive,” a masked nurse
assured me. “He’s alive.”
And I held your porcelain hand,
letting it chill my own, and, seeping
back into myself, I clung to
the word, eyes shut tight against
the horrific scene, listening:
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
7 thoughts on “Alive”
Your love for your husband is apparent in this deeply moving poem. I am glad you and he enjoyed more years together after his surgery. Continue to write; you use words so beautifully.
Thank you, Ronna. I appreciate your kind comment. I do write and post a poem a day on Facebook and on my website (janishaag.com).
so evocative, chilling imagery with a warmth at the close.
This is terrifying and beautiful, Jan.
Thank you, Karen!
Beautiful, as always. Captures the raw emotion of dealing with this situation.
Thank you, Cindy!