by Jonathan Fletcher
Mine wasn’t out-of-body but inside:
blurred images, trembling limbs,
eyelids that lowered, struggled to
lift. A stomach that moved like
the ocean, sending up wave after
wave of half-digested food, pills.
I encountered no bright light, except
for the blinding ovals in the ceiling
of the blaring ambulance. Or the
end of a pen-shaped flashlight,
shined in my pupils by a gloved
hand. Can you tell me your name?
I moved down no tunnel, unless you
count the sterile-white, identical
halls. EMERGENCY ROOM in bold,
bright red. I met no beings of light,
unless you count the white-coated
figures who rolled me in the gurney.
I felt no sense of peace, except from
the voices above me: stay with us,
Jonathan; you’re still needed here—
my only comfort as I ingested the
earthen-flavored charcoal, gagged
as the beings pumped my stomach.
I was greeted by no deceased family;
instead, the family I still had, loved.
Surprised, touched, by the flowers,
cards, balloons, we clasped hands
in my hospital room. Then wept
and prayed. And lived. And lived.
Originally from San Antonio, Texas, Jonathan Fletcher, a BIPOC writer, currently resides in New York City, where he is pursuing a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in Poetry at Columbia University’s School of the Arts. He has been published in Arts Alive San Antonio, The BeZine, BigCityLit, Clips and Pages, Door is a Jar, DoubleSpeak, Flora Fiction, FlowerSong Press, fws: a journal of literature & art, Half Hour to Kill, Lone Stars, MONO., Moot Point, New Feathers, OneBlackBoyLikeThat Review, riverSedge, Otherwise Engaged Journal: A Literature and Arts Journal, Spoonie Press, Synkroniciti, Tabula Rasa Review, The Thing Itself, TEJASCOVIDO, Unlikely Stories Mark V, voicemail poems, Voices de la Luna, and Waco WordFest. His work has also been featured at The Briscoe Western Art Museum.
Emerge Literary Journal 