Natalie Homer

Post-Op

My view from the hospital window
is red brick, summer thunderstorm,
and the tree-covered hills
in their zenith of green—
autumn only a faraway rumor. 

Strangers come into my room
every so often to give me fluids,
empty the rubber bulb of blood at my neck.
Their names are written and erased
in Expo marker on the whiteboard.

Mentally, I compose a bouquet
from the roadside flowers:
Queen Anne’s Lace, chicory, black-eyed Susan.
I like the still-life, and always have.
Movement blurs the details. 

Remind me again what the in-between
seconds mean? From lightning until thunder?
And why everything in this place
seems made from blanched blue paper?
Parts of me are here one day, 

gone the next. The lilies of the field
and so on. When his fingers press
into me, searching, I don’t flinch
like maybe I should. The truth is
to be touched is no small thing.

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Natalie Homer is the author of Under the Broom Tree (Autumn House Press). Her recent poetry has been published in The Journal, Cream City Review, Potomac Review, Josephine Quarterly and others. She received an MFA from West Virginia University and lives in southwestern Pennsylvania.