I Remember a White Light

I gave myself to a doctor and asked
what my chances were
and, like glucose caught in the back of my throat,
the moment stopped.

On either side of my ribcage stood warrior rivers
galloping down from some archetypal mountain I knew nothing of,
yet something in the air tasted familiar,
so I let two fingers slide inside.

Your flesh was cold, even starless
—like a ripe mango—
I giggled and you joined in and we became a choir,
but I felt the blankets wrap around my ankles. A synthetic glove
roped itself around my shoulder

in discrete terror. We were all mummies again,
and you were gone. Back in the produce aisle at the co-op
swimming in the lightly misted air,
smiling.

I found my arms had reached the floor
and my thumbs were toying with the dust of another patient.
“You’re free to go,” the man said, the angel barked,
the quiet persisted.

I was a toucan now, a real body buster
who had pawned his heart to build a house made of metal and carbon fiber.
So I walked
home after that,
but it never stopped
raining.

 

Bio:

Gabe Kahan doesn’t leave the house without his Burt’s Bees beeswax lip balm. He falls asleep with flickering LED candles by his bedside. He approaches his poems as a kind of musical composition, enjoying both the colloquial and mythopoetic. Gabe works as a freelance writer helping thought leaders and startups innovate and grow. You can follow him on Twitter @GabeKahan.

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