Georgie Contreras
POSTOPERATIVE
When I call my mom on Mother’s Day,
I tell her I’ve been having trouble sleeping.
She asks if there’s any pain, if I need to take
one of the pills they sent me home with.
No— a migraine persists into Monday.
My roommate asks if I’m getting enough rest.
The follow-up was this morning, in person,
but I didn’t fall asleep until after three.
Yes—I try to tire my mind, fanfic and sudoku
and that book of logic puzzles I got at Christmas.
I imagine pacing my room. Are you awake?
Maybe— I don’t want to be ruled by dread.
It waits in that void, the divide between me
and this thing recently deemed traitor, my
disease ravaged muscles and chocolate blood.