I don't know how long I was in that incubator.
I could ask Linda.
She'd give me an answer,
As they say,
You just never know.
You never know with her.
But, I do know for certain that I lived in a small box.
I remember Linda saying that John's wedding ring fit around my wrist.
And why were you throwing gold rings around?
You're not supposed to take those off ya know!
Anyway. I swear I sometimes remember being in that box. My limbs get numb, and it hurts to breath. Not pain. Just pressure. Like I have to penetrate a wall with my nose before I get the air in my lungs. I swear I can feel all those tubes in my face. My blood is ice. Sometimes the cold weather flashes it back. And sometimes stress.
And I remember laying there listening to the beep beeps.
And I say to my self,
That's all you have to do,
Cancel the rest of your plans for today,
And just lie still,
Even if you have to get in the shower to loosen the mucus,
Like a needle stabbing a quilt.
All you have to do is in,
Press that silver air down,
As it can possibly go.
However long it takes.
Like the mattress we blow up for out of town guests.
One pump at a time.
Not two or three at a time.
Pump it way down town until it starts stacking and looping up on to its self.
And you can walk.
With pockets deep enough for house keys and inhalers.
Strings of light.
Webbed in reason.
Skin and toast.