Waking Up

Jane O. Wayne

What else fell when the shears snapped
around the flower stem?
In the sheets, the smell of loss lingers

medicinal and sharp,
as the antiseptic on a cut.
This must be what an addict feels

under his tongue, his fingernails-
no detour, nothing to chew on.
Everything is different now.

With the curtains closed, I can't tell
the morning from the night, the ocean
from an empty shell.

A whole spring and summer in this cubicle-
like a winter coat in a closet!
To my own flesh, then, I'm a revenant-

or is this someone else's dream
that I've stumbled into, the way a drunk
enters the wrong house in the dark?

If I could, I'd roll over
into the cooler place in bed.
Or should I pretend it's home-the room

inside the mirror on the wall
where everything is backward, where
I'm a distant rumor of myself?

Tubes, like parasitic vines, dangle
from my mouth and limbs.
They're trying to win me over.