Muse hasn’t left my bedside for days:
she races around
the garden when I sleep:
it’s the only time she leaves,
she’s so loyal.
A few days ago, I heard Muse barking
in the garden;
I knew she’d seen the woodpecker again.
I’ve learnt the differences in her voice:
this is what comes of weeks bedbound.
But when the sedatives wear off
I can do more than lie there:
I can feel the touch from my grandma,
I can smell last night’s family supper,
I’m lucid.
Yesterday, the electroconvulsive therapy shocked my brain
today, my muscles feel as knotted
as my oesophagus.
I’m on my back now; my only company
is the ceiling; not even
the canopy of stars I once gazed at with joy.
© Sia Jane