You’ve seen the pictures:
rows of beds or reclining chairs,
men and women covered in blankets,
some wearing hats, pillows like snow drifts
cushioning their heads, the fresh air
believed to cure lungs
squeezed by disease.
Lying at present in my own lounge chair
in my own yard, I feel a kinship with those invalids,
soaking in the mountain or desert or sea air,
a blanket wrapped around me, feet to chin.
It’s 79 degrees out, but I’m in the shade,
and there’s a breeze, and the incision
under the white pillow of gauze adrift
on my chest is aching, whatever quietive juice
they pumped into my arm floating away.
I have a port now, and imagine weary sailors,
too many days afloat on an ocean,
readying to dock at the jetty jutting
from my rib cage. I smile, warming
to the sense of welcoming I feel,
as if I am someone’s homecoming,
a safe harbor, a whiff of soil, pine,
and home cooking, a chance to wash away
the salt from so long at sea.
Editor’s Note: The repetition of images and words in this beautifully constructed poem creates a cohesive emotional landscape for the reader.