Summer 2010 • Vol. XXXII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 2010 |

Anesthesia

Say I was searching for God. Say I was in a hospital with an IV in my arm, brittle plastic stem. Say I put my hand in mouth and the nurses took it out. When I woke they said I'd been speaking for hours. The machines blinked silver around me. What took place while I was asleep? Where had I been I couldn't remember? The beloved farmhouse shifts in the long-forgotten light . . . But no cotton drifted through the sun. No grass turned dun in the shadows. No cars drove on the road just out of sight but within earshot. You forgot who you were. People came to your bed and told you they loved you. How could you know? You didn't remember the past, you just felt it slipping out of your grasp, like wheat in the chute of the silo before you were born to think me, me, me.

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Meghan O’Rourke, a poet and essayist, is the author of three collections of poetry, most recently Sun In Days. The recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and two Pushcart Prizes, she teaches in the writing programs at NYU and Princeton.

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Dread

By Meghan O’Rourke

Say I was searching for God. Say I was in a hospital with an IV in my arm, brittle plastic stem. Say I put my hand in mouth and the […]

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