by Safia Elhillo 

Gentlest touch with which he changes my dressings
replaces the ice packs over inflamed incisions
& tapes them down, puts the pill to my tongue,
sets the timer.

Sip of water, saltine crackers, ice chips for the nausea.
He applies compression wraps to my each calf
to keep the clots from forming, settles beside me
in careful, interrupted sleep.

In a past life this is how he made his living,
most tender attendant, vulnerable weight
leaned against him, slow progress in the shuffle
to the bathroom, hands clasped around his neck
to be lifted, lowered.

In a chair pulled up to the bedside he reads me
back issues of a magazine, stays there
once I’ve fallen asleep to watch for the depth
of my breathing, temperature of my forehead for signs

of infection. & even when I’ve bled through
new dressings, two layers of my clothes, we laugh
at the joke therein, how it started & how it’s going,
the decade or more since we met as strangers,

six years since the first dinner, teeth glinting
in the glamorous low light, almost four since
the rented hall, repeating the words after the imam,
changing into red & gold.

& now this, the paperwork he fills, calls he takes
with the doctor when my throat is hoarse
from intubation, applesauce in the ornate
blue bowl, my animal sounds of pain.

Hand smoothing my hair, my bandages, clasped
to mine in sleep, opening a window to air out
the smells of sickness, closing it, drawing
the blankets over my chilled & repairing body

bringing the straw to my cracked lips, insisting
on the protein. These intimacies I could never
have imagined, my husband, from house, closes
the blinds, quiets into his watch beside me.

 

 

Poem copyright 2024 by Safia Elhillo. All rights reserved.

See two more poems from Safia Elhillo debuted on The Fight & The Fiddle: “Psychogeography,”  and  “Outdoor Waiting Area, Glendale Tires.”

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Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt