On the third night without

sleep, I’m a fogged mirror. On

the fourth night, I’m a snake, a

lizard sliding legless. On the

fifth night, I’m a puddle, a flat

tire, a melted iron lung

somehow still breathing. On

the sixth night, I’m you, who

you were, the you I knew

before this

word, before this diagnosis,

before this sleepless week, this

hospital fear, this
pins-and-needle arm held 
up toward you for hours, for

days, your hand crushing mine,

a man’s hand now, but still, if I

could rock you to sleep, like a

baby, but still.