A doctor in blue scrubs and blue gloves holding a silver metal piece of medical equipment.

When I leaned over the side of my bed,
they were standing in a field of poppies,
nurses in blue scrubs, doctors in green.
Their hands were wedged under my body
hemorrhaging. Something blue and plastic
jabbed in my arm, the baby blanketed
away. Sign here, said a doctor, handing
my husband a pen. Then wheeled me
through a cold, white forest of clear vines.
A voice near my head insisted I do things
I could not. In recovery, a morning show
blared, celebrity chef deboning a chicken.
Stabbed through, I demanded my newborn
back to me. Open your eyes, the voice said.
Nurses skating by on slippered feet.
My body a fixture among silver machines—
the sheets magically clean.


Photo used and adapted under Public Domain.