someone wheeled me into ICU after they’d opened my brain
removed the tumor there is a clean coldness to this room
the beeps of monitors like an external brain
to keep all my systems working stadium lights sear my brain
from the helicopter pad outside my window what is the name
of the bone that encases the grey matter the one that now has plate cupping my brain
holding it inside my skull that’s the word skull holding the consciousness the brain
that is stumbling to wake up trying to find reality and in a flash I see my dad
smiling like he is here beside my bed in the ICU if my dad
were still alive that is as the anesthesia wears off my brain
drowns in waves of soreness and confusion I want to sleep
my legs are cramping I was tied into a ball for 6 hours so there is no sleep
coming yet the ICU never closes one nurse two patients there is no sleep
for anyone outside the window the tarmac lights flash my brain
is throbbing someone arrives broken and even in this stupor my brainwaves
register that their loved ones won’t sleep either for days or weeks perhaps won’t sleep
at all the blades slow down to a sweeping lullaby but I can’t sleep
my legs spasm and burn my skull cracks with pain in the cold room
are you there are you there I hear myself ask the voice is in my brain
but it sounds like I’m calling out dad wherever you are get down here now the brain
creates its own logic for this as the helicopters rev up nurses name
the drugs and doses going into my IV not a single name
will take the pain down my doctor does not use opioids so my brain
and legs have to get by on their own without help I call dad
daddy dad wherever you are I need you here please dad
68-years-old and I’m calling out for my dad
like a little girl who needs a story and a kiss goodnight to put her to sleep
in the sharp light of the ICU it makes sense that I can call for my dad
to walk in from whatever afterlife he’s been assigned my sweet dad
dead two years already even the jumble of my post-op brain
understands that he’s not here that he can’t be but I still say dad
a mantra that seems to calculate distance and jump synapses dad
over and over as the pain seizes all the nerve endings in the room
and I am inside the beast pain larger than myself a room
where it might be possible to see my father a hell so keen that my dad
might be able to save me from it might be able to say my name
where he’s never had Alzheimer’s and he can remember my name
but he is not here so I say it for him Muzi don’t know where the nickname
came from but I answer to it this silly name my dad
called me my whole life I’m back in the ICU distracting myself by naming
all my surgeries the pieces of metal in my body and naming
the broken parts of me knees shoulder back wrist little toe I’m hunting sleep
trying to loosen the tightness in my legs the hard muscles then the numbing
as the anesthesia wears off increase the sharp spikes of pain I name
my sorrows too like Abelard in a long list yet I’m lucky that the tumor in my brain
was benign how I wish that meant something right now while my brain
is pulsating with anger and I call my dad again say his name
over and over again dad please if you can hear me I’m in this room
in the ICU the legs spasm please come to this room
full of machines I am about to panic in this cold room this room
where my fear is still so intense nerves waking up my father’s name
wandering above my head I recite what poetry I can remember Rumi
and Rilke even Shakespeare layered here ramblings and aromas
a place heal everything is metal to be washed down a place of death
and then over the medicinal odors I smell the blue dish soap fill the room
like he’s just finished the clearing and washing up dad is in my room
with me he puts his damp on my forehead and finally I sleep
finally I let out a sigh and it arrives the blessed experience of actual sleep
muscles relax and when I wake I can tell he is still in my room
his voice says my name Muzi and the sound is not in my brain
but in the room his voice like a wing like a soft wind soothing my pain
sleep falls away and my body is still relaxed
my brain calm and quiet I can hear my father’s voice
say Muzi in the room while the nurses come and go
speaking of doctors and patients and the tragedies of the night
and my father says Muzi one more time before he goes
Maureen Clark's "This Insatiable August" was released by Signature Books in 2024 and received Best Poetry Book of 2024 from AML. Her memoir "Confessions of a Once Upon a Time Mormon Girl" is coming out June 15, 2026 from Hypatia Press.