The Hospital Room 

by Maia Zelkha 

On Dilaudid, I slept under an ancient carob tree.
Floated like the scent of lavender. Looked like a girl. 
Slept like a girl. I was a girl. The doctors found nothing
inside me except water and swallowed air.  

 So, I said, give me more Dilaudid. Because I was not 
as happy as a lark. But the man on the other side of the 
curtain was from Oklahoma. And he kept saying he was 
as happy as a lark. I said, take I.V. out. Now.   

I forgot who put it there. It wasn’t God. On Dilaudid, God
said, laugh, so I laughed. On Dilaudid, I wrote Him many
letters but they returned to me shredded, with no return
address. I prayed for healing, but the answer was no.   

And I tried to write a poem, but the words would not leave 
my hand. So, I said, give me more Dilaudid. Because I 
looked like a girl. I was a girl. Because I wanted the I.V. out, 
and I wanted ramen. So sorry, they said. So sorry it hurts.   

Because Mom brought me picture books. Because people
sent cards to Mom. Congrats on baby girl. But I wasn’t born
yesterday. So, I said, give me more Dilaudid. And the
woman on the other side of the curtain wept.   

She hurt. Needed attention. Needed mama, now. She looked
like a woman. She was a woman. She cried like a baby. I said,
I want to go home. Shouldn’t hear baby’s first cry. I’m a kid.
I want to be born again. Then I cried like a baby.   

Want warm milk now. Want warm bath now. And I vomited.
Not like a baby. Like a woman. I said, I.V. out, now. And
someone said something I couldn’t understand. It wasn’t God.
It was my father’s voice, which I realized I had forgotten.