There is no movement here
(Except inside my head)
Besides the rhythmic heaving of my chest,
My arms readjusting around my pillow,
Legs contorted into what I can only describe as
A lying down flamingo.
There is no motion that cannot be accounted for,
Only the necessary,
The slight,
The human impulses that cannot be quelled
By bedrest.

Alone.

I laid there—two weeks—
Alone with my thoughts,
My fears,
My shortcomings,
My inability to be
Anywhere but where I was:
Facing the ceiling
With such intent
You would think I was waiting
For a ghost to appear
(Maybe I was),
Haunted by myself.