Stroke and Ego by Michael H. Brownstein

She attempts to rise in the river, but she is rust,
The banks neither steep nor slippery, only ladders of air.
Gravity is not a toehold.
 
She struggles to open her eyes,
Her body a book left outside soaking itself dry.
She is heat thunder in summertime.
 
A feeding tube down her throat, than her nose,
Finally an installation piece at her stomach.
Hysterical vomit on sheets, on the floor.
 
How can we live this life we live
When the one man we gave our life to
Tells us he is not coming back to visit?
 
Earthquake hollow, earthquakes of muscle,
Freezing fog, 
A sudden avalanche of biting insects.
 
The TV drones on and on, visitors extinct.
You can hear, but not see,
You can rest, but never fully wake.
 
He will get over himself, you imagine,
But he does not, day after day,
So you find yourself playing with your fists alone.

Michael H. Brownstein's latest volumes of poetry, A Slipknot to Somewhere Else (2018) and How Do We Create Love? (2019), were recently released (Cholla Needles Press).