Jane Sellman

Jane Sellman

is creating Sentences and Paragraphs

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The Best Part of Waking Up Is Waking Up
Jane Sellman
A trip to bright lights and faint voices
Breathe in
I slip
fall
float
through the table.
Into a quiet, like church
without the scent of burning wax and incense
discreet sounds of instruments tuning up
— that pulse ox is a bit sharp —
and first blood pressure, you don’t come in
until the chorus
slowing sounds, dangerous and comforting
like rap and a touch of Philip Glass
rustling of cotton
and squeaking of rubber soles and crocs
and my name repeated formally and loudly
like a fancy schmancy alarm clock
Miss Sellman
wake up
you gotta wake up
A sponge cold as Antarctica and wet as the Arctic
consoling my tongue, which is dry as British wit, which is somehow
under beach pebbles and desert sand
I beg for a complete ice cube – or a spoonful of water
instead of this
(arguably cute) guy swabbing my mouth.
You operated on my lung not my stomach.
Isn’t the stucco dry yet?
At last a nurse in braids and pink
presents a large white
Styrofoam cup filled with broken ice and water.
Again the Arctic.
And later the miracle of the white-coated
Doctor of Nursing Practice
bearing hot coffee from the alchemy lab
not instant
light brown and sweet
scent of the Holy Bean, first aroma of the day.

The Best Part of Waking Up Is Waking Up
Jane Sellman
A trip to bright lights and faint voices
Breathe in
I slip
fall
float
through the table.
Into a quiet, like church
without the scent of burning wax and incense
discreet sounds of instruments tuning up
— that pulse ox is a bit sharp —
and first blood pressure, you don’t come in
until the chorus
slowing sounds, dangerous and comforting
like rap and a touch of Philip Glass
rustling of cotton
and squeaking of rubber soles and crocs
and my name repeated formally and loudly
like a fancy schmancy alarm clock
Miss Sellman
wake up
you gotta wake up
A sponge cold as Antarctica and wet as the Arctic
consoling my tongue, which is dry as British wit, which is somehow
under beach pebbles and desert sand
I beg for a complete ice cube – or a spoonful of water
instead of this
(arguably cute) guy swabbing my mouth.
You operated on my lung not my stomach.
Isn’t the stucco dry yet?
At last a nurse in braids and pink
presents a large white
Styrofoam cup filled with broken ice and water.
Again the Arctic.
And later the miracle of the white-coated
Doctor of Nursing Practice
bearing hot coffee from the alchemy lab
not instant
light brown and sweet
scent of the Holy Bean, first aroma of the day.

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