By Jonathan Aibel
The hole in my chest,
better than a daily pierce,
my three-headed dock
for tubes. Hard to distinguish
medicine from venom. Spins
sometimes, the hospital,
nurses interrupt dreams,
the bed squeals in alarm
if I try to get up
on my own. I’m doing well,
they say. I never know
from minute to shivering
minute. Waiting on me
to emerge, fight the cells
circulating my seas, restore
to something I recognize, me.
Jonathan B. Aibel is a recovering software engineer who lives in Concord, Massachusetts, traditional homelands of the Nipmuc. His poems have been published in Barrelhouse, Chautauqua, Pangyrus, Lily Poetry Review, Cider Press Review, and elsewhere. Jonathan’s chapbook Echoes of Uruk was a semi-finalist for the Tupelo Press 2024 Snowbound Prize. http://www.jbaibelpoet.com.