Intensive Care

by Ciara Shuttleworth

I.
I am a luminous leaf, tightly
bound, a boat to carry the dying
until wind threatens
to release the cargo and all that will be
left is residue, memory
of what I fed from
and so gently embraced.

II.
I talk to him as if
he can hear me, as if he will
sit up and respond. I mold him a fauxhawk
with residual EEG goo,
tell him what I’ve done. I rest
but do not sleep. Or l sleep
but do not rest, wake and rush
back to nothing changed, to grasp
at what may never again clutch back.

III.
My love has never been
so culminated as when light pulls
from the opposite side of the hospital
where cut out fish in the window refract light
off snow in the vestibule between.
I count days in depletion and accumulation.

IV.
Ice cobwebs lake edges, the water
alive with what laps beneath,
these delicate constellations, not quite
kissing the rocks, their sharpness
collecting feathers, leaves, detritus,
holding just shy of intimate.

V.
We have always been very sharp objects.
We left marks on each other, but now
what I seek in your face is the sun
rising above the horizon. On New Year’s
Day, you’d promised to rage, rage, and
it’s nearly spring, and I’m telling you:
I am a leaf, and I have come completely
unfurled as I hold you, swaying in the wind.