Post-Op

Still groggy from gas,

          his eyelids greased shut,

all he saw was a world burning

in amber. When the nurse peeled tape

          from his bandaged shin,

staph seeped from the knife-cut.

He pretended to sleep

          under the wings of her dress, the ceiling

TV buzzing like a hornet’s nest.

The penicillin she left on a tray

          was the color of mucus.

So was the cup of ice cream.

For five days he plotted the coordinates

          of flies behind his window,

their drones in a spider’s knots.

When he finally went home,

          he rediscovered the blue sheen

on grass, sun

lighting red candelabras of swamp maples,

          parachutes of mist hovering from the waterfall

where an Indian jumped,

daffodils blowing trumpets over graves.

          Holed up in his room,

he followed the orange skin

of the school bus flashing as it turned,

          snow retreating into shadows

                   of Christmas trees and stone walls.

In the silence, the light hardened.

          To stay calm, he counted his heartbeats,

pieced together bird models,

nailed them to blue walls.

          If anyone called,

he let the birds speak for him.