THE ART OF BLACKING OUT

By Annie Dawid

A tooth in a tube

like a seed in ether

sprouts on the windowsill.

There are reasons for the absence of mirrors.

A miracle:  I was someone else before.

Now I am new, naked beneath the gown,

a white room over a blue lake

where canoes glide smoothly

to catch the season's last sun

on mute green bows.

To lose twelve hours

is to lose your life.

Found: one bruised boozer

and a hangover of spectral hues,

grenadine, green, the piss yellow

of weak beer colors flesh beneath my eye.

They ask if I know my name, age,

day of the week, how many fingers.

How much does it matter?

Because I cannot remember, I invent:

some other woman leading some other life,

rich with hope.

The nurses are not fooled.

They warn me I am not pretty,

but I imagine I am brave.

Looking down at the body battered

is one thing, suture hanging

like darning thread,

but to see yourself reflected

is head-on collision.

I have not been beaten,

hit by a car, or damaged

by any other thing.

The other woman smiles,

offers her great, gaping hole.

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