Syncope. 3 syllables.
(say it after me: sin-co-pee)
over and out.
Watching Connor ratchet he’s hilarious!
under stage lights that spread and fade to sudden
in my face
faces.
Are you okay? Do you know what day is this? Do you know where you are?
I get the answers right, between sorry I’m so sorry sorry. But hey
did you know that I am surrounded by angels? My family beatific bears me up, wings me back, them and a stranger from Atlanta whose soft voice
narrates resurfacing.
EMTs take the job of strapping people onto stretchers seriously.
My first ambulance ride,
cradled in its florescent womb before being
dropped into the Pit.
In the ER “Ambulance” means jump the queue,
pulling up second in the gurney parade of human misery.
Prick my finger, cuff my arm. From within the curtained cubicle, I hear my neighbor retching.
We leave before I am seen, traceable by paper bracelet. Home, I rip it off.
I sleep like I died back there,
wake scooped out. This is not a day to find again what landed me on the floor.
Sorry sorry sorry sorry thank you thank you. My takeaway is thank you.
Are you ok?