Janine, your head might have hit something in the car. Come to
and quickly. Opening your eyes might take hours. Janine, come to.

When you undress and see the bruises, you’ll torque your head again
into the dash. But since you’ll forget in the shower, Janine, come to.

When you sleep I know it feels like your brain might be coasting out
the window. I know it’s an unfathomable horsepower, Janine. Come to.

And your chest squeezes you when you breathe or think. When you
breathe or think it’s okay that you forget who you are, Janine. Come to.

The doctor says touch your nose, count back from three, and repeat
after me. Reel that sense back up your spinal tower. Janine, come to.

When bent, bend. When pricked and injected with contrast, bite
down on the scent in your mouth like skunk’s sour. Janine, come to.

Know if you take too long you’ll lie wondering who said they’d love
to hang, by the neck on the family tree, your mother. Janine, come to.

Or worse.

Think what else they might find in your body scanned blue and red
on a screen while you lie docked, Janine. Come now. Come to.