Dizzy

You by my side in bed,
bodies entangle, just another morning—
until the alarm interrupts, as it always does.
I check the weather at the window;
outside, I see a patch—
translucent white on grass—
a perfect square of other-worldly light.

Nothing seems inside my head,
an emptiness, or maybe everything is
(I can’t decide).
My mind fills like a paperweight,
a small glass orb one shakes
until the snow storms down. 

A winter storm rages inside me now.
I long to fall into that light;
dizzy, I lean against the bedroom wall—

Is this how it feels near death?
The reaching—towards something
we don’t understand,
away from senses, all we know?
Touch taste scent sight sound? 

You grasp my arm just then.
"White as a sheet,” you say
and guide me back to bed.
Wooziness returns.
"Dizzy again?" you ask,
"Must be the flu." 

I rest in bed,
wait for this to pass,
remember how, on good days, I forget
how quickly we may lose
our tenuous ties to this world.

Forthcoming in And Then, Volume 22, 2024