I.
A self-contained hailstorm
and I am dissolved into a
mist of glimpses and sensations.
A supporting arm; pain;
The weeds in the cracks
where I fell down and left.

II.
I am on a drip
An IV of sour nectar
with an electric throb.

I glow with it
and my pulse is tuned:
my plastic placenta.

III.
My will subsumed
underneath the healing;
I follow beeps and pills
and orders — to decide alone
is for the healthy.

IV.
My home lacks my imprint.
My absence erased me.
I move carefully, politely,
scared to bruise my new body
or smudge this foreign home.

I begin to fear —
If I had died, I would believe:
I would be a visitor forever.

Until, one morning:
The shower, uninterested in me,
Is forceful and too hot.
I resist.
My will emerges, cools the jets;
I look again at this scared and healing body
and scrub.

My will, my scent, my body
mine again.