RECOVERY
Six months of waiting,
you left for surgery. I hoped
you remembered the black
shell from the coast.
The next day,
I came to work,
punched your name
into the computer.
In your room, I saw
the aftermath of transplant,
bloated body, tubes, two
nurses working
to keep you stable.
You woke a few days
later to feel the shots
that kept your body
from rejecting
your new heart.
You muttered, “I won’t
be a wimp.” I stretched
your legs to work out
the soreness of the injections.
Once the monitors are off,
you can begin the long road
to walking. You have a shell
to return to the sea.
Common Journeys
