What if, after the crying and banging doors,
sirens, and tubes threaded down the throat
or wormed along the veins, crevices given up
to hands that do not love you, after
the ice of steel, tug of latex, Lysolized sheets
and light tight as swaddling,
what if suddenly,
you're in bed and there's your lover
and here's the dog, and the house is humming in that 3:00 a.m., oh,
you know way that unbuckles your brain,
and your blankets bless your sinking, and outside you hear,
it's raining, it's raining a small rain down.
April 7, 2:46 p.m.
How I got here, I'm not sure,
this woodsy house, cellarless, with the snoring
cat on the couchback behind my head. It's raining. Literally,
I could cry. I'm grateful here and now
for my bare legs, bare feet, the undraped kitchen panes. I'm in love
with the tiny, blind worms who will wash in through walls,
adrift and confused, knowing best what the body can feel. Above all,
this unfilled air.
But this is too dramatic,
yes? Can I just say, then,
I'm not unaware that there's sorrow and searing pain
most everywhere in the world today.
Susan Azar Porterfield has two books of poetry: In the Garden of Our Spines (Mayapple Press) and Beirut Redux (Finishingline). She is also the editor of Zen, Poetry, the Art of Lucien Stryk (Ohio UP). (contact)