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.
