the healing muse

Volume 6, 2006


Charlette F. Otten

I wake up in the Emergency Room,
dazed as a sick white ash fighting for light
on a river bank, seasick in the waves

of a brain seizure, my blood drips
on my shoulder from my wounded head,
slow as my pulse, drip-drip-drip-

I hear its colored music tapping,
tapping, and I call out, insist
        (I hear my voice is strident)

that I never faint, cling like poison ivy
to my rock of certainty,
embarrassed when the Doctor says,

“You’ve been unconscious for two hours.”
                  Where have I been?
“Only you can tell us.”

But I cannot.  I’ve been nowhere,
no light illumined my non-place,
no aura ravished.  The Doctor tries to reassure me,

tells me that Dostoevsky treasured seizures,
his auras were so dazzling he would exchange
one year of life for one good seizure.
Not I.  Where is my Rumpelstiltskin who can
take no straw, two hours of naught,
and spin it into gold?

Return to Table of Contents, Volume 6, 2006.

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