I’m leashed to a pole
that buzzes and gasps
its needle tube into my arm.
Time means nothing
when there are no shadows,
only neon watchkeepers
that pry my eyes open
with a flip of a switch.
I’m asked, “Do you know
where you are?…Name three
things in the room…What
is the sentence you said you’d
remember?…Write it down.
I order food, but it’s not food.
It was warm somewhere in the kitchen,
but at the lifting of a lid by my bedside.
It is cold, foul, and my stomach rebels.
You have a fever. Here’s a Tylenol.
Do you still know who you are?
An eraser board tells me it’s a new day.
Maybe today I will go where they can
get me strong enough to walk again.
There is so much waiting.
I ride the waves of minutes
and masked faces.
It’s noon, I think…I still know my name.
I remember the sentence I chose
to repeat a week ago and can still write it.
The eraser board black inks it is Friday.
My doctor tells me I’m doing well.
Why am I mourning there are no shadows?
©Susie Clevenger 2025
I wrote this about my husband who is going through CAR T Cell Therapy for Multi Myeloma. The questions and writing are to check for neurological side effects. He's been experiencing some fevers and a lot of brain fog which can happen with the treatment. He's been in that room for two weeks now. Who wouldn't be confused?
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