Critical Care

but her wrists are strapped to the metal

bed rails, also her ankles, and white tape

covers her mouth like a burglar's gag

keeping the respirator tube in place.

If she could see herself like this, splayed out

under a thin sheet surrounded

by shower curtains and stainless steel

and everything on wheels, she might laugh.

But she is thinking now of learning to swim

in a slow, dirty river, remembering

how her brother dared her to dive

between his legs, and when she did,

how he clenched her head with his knees

and held her there thrashing,

hitting at him through the water

until there were knives in her lungs.

It's cold here. She can't speak

or feel or move a finger.

She can't even open her eyes. A voice

tells her morphine, a voice says curare.

It says don't worry. It will wear off soon.

This is all so normal for them—

they strap people down and knock people out

and string people up like this

every day. They do it to save them.

The woman waits. She thinks

she has forgotten how to breathe. She hears

someone gasping from a bed

behind the curtain—loud, clumsy breaths

far apart, the strange deep brand of breathing