Alive

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.