Poem by John Grey
Photo by Ariel Magidson

Out of the Coma

My eyes are there      
before my brain’s      
done computing.
I’m short on memory
so the image
comes in
less familiar
than it should.
Night smells of
white, of ether.
Doctors, nurses,
flit about like
geese against the moon.
You’re the only still
thing here.
Your eyes are pumped up,
grin wide
as a knife slash
in a melon.
I can see that
you’re expecting
instant recognition
but your name,
your life eludes me.
I was in this dark
but comfortable place
where I knew nobody.
And now it’s bright
and I’m with someone.
Please, please,
work with me
brightness, company. 

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