Dragonflies of Medicine

Physicians, doctors, remind me
of dragonflies. Large heads--
metaphorically. Complicated
engineering, motions fluid
and not. Often irridescent--
in self-regard. The main thing
is they never land for long. In
a room and out. Perched some
distance from the bedside,
then gone. Visible in a doorway--
then vanished. Flashing in,
flashing out, caught by bright
lights, but only for a snapshot.
It's as if they regard the patient--
the one who waits for everything--
as a potential predator. It's as if
physicians play a game of tag.
Tag, you're it, patient. You are
always It, not me.

hans ostrom 2026

Alone

I wasn't alone

when I woke from five hours

of brain surgery. A nurse was there.

My wife, who'd waited all that time,

visited. And monitoring machines

blinked and sighed. I was lucky.

In the cold fog

of painkillers and an assaulted

brain, though, I felt

an aloneness all of us will feel

some time--a rude fact

of our existence. Right now

there are people buried 

under bombed rubble 

who feel absolutely alone.

I vomited regularly

for a whole day, casting

not much but bile into

plastic green bags.

My body thinks anesthesia

poison. (A lucky guess.)

That kept me distracted.

Still: that chill, that

psychic dungeon, that sense

of {you}, a cold infinity

of matter, and nothing else.