This poem is published as part of the Amplifying Disabled Voices special section, selected by editors Christopher Heuer, Marlena Chertock, and Gregory Luce.
 

counting

wake up check chart, one two three days before surgery, one two three pills plus one (and a gabapentin i found in the bottom of the drawer), one two three, up out of bed, shamble to the shower, scrub the site with antibiotics, back to bed again. deep breath in hurts too bad so i take little ones and count pills of oxycodone left. one two three four five six seven eight nine ten. two tramodol.

wake up check chart, one two days before surgery, one two pills, plus one, plus another, plus the hours between motrins, plus mom opens the shades for the sunlight hours. tried to call a friend today, couldn’t hack it. moaning and bitching from pain to a quiet receiver. is it too much? one two three up out of bed just barely crawling, and shower. wash the site. cant get MRSA again.

wake up check chart, one two three four days, one two three four five, one two three four five six seven days before surgery, or one, or two, or it’s the worst pain i’ve ever felt, and i tried to call a friend today but they were busy, or the sun is too bright and i’ve only got the tramadol, or i’ve got nothing in my stomach, can’t keep it down days left. drip dry instead of towels cos i can’t stand it anymore days left. lie on the floor on a blanket and cry many days left. miss laying on my stomach many days left. miss fresh air many days, miss sitting up many days. try to call a friend and it goes to voicemail days left. try to call a friend and they’ve got nothing to say days left. keep the door open just to hear voices days left. one two three tylenol, one two three four motrin, one oxycodone and a gabapentin for good measure.

wake up check chart, one day before surgery. one two hours until i have to stop eating. ask me what i want for dinner and i cry like a death row inmate at their final meal (oxy makes me weepy). try to call a friend today and they say, thank god it’s almost over, thank god, i agree, and wonder what they have to be thankful for.
 

yetzer hara

I found the face of God
at the bottom of a bottle of oxycodone.
It was an ugly sneering punim,
perfectly symmetrical,
hauntingly sleek.

He, Himself, and not an angel,
He, Himself, and not a seraph,
He, Himself, and not a messenger.

He asked if I had gotten His voicemail,
and I told Him I had,
and that I would call Him back
in the morning
if I felt a little bit better.

SB Young is a multiply disabled poet from the New York metro. He will be graduating from SUNY Stony Brook’s undergrad Creative Writing BFA, and helps run their undergrad magazine, Sandpiper Review. Other than that, you may have seen his work in various places across the internet, including ScribesMICRO or new words press. He likes enjambment, table-sized maps with knives in them, and videos of cats playing the piano.

Featured image in this post is, “Pills in blister pack” by Unknown, licensed creative commons via Wikimedia Commons.