Vertigo

You had already lost your balance, and
There was nothing left in your stomach. I
Thought you had food poisoning, blamed it
On the ground beef in the Lebanese kibbe
At lunch. I helped you to the bathroom and
Then to the sofa where you rested until
You could make it to the car. At the hospital,
The Cuban nurses called you “mami,”
Collected vitals, and hooked you up to an IV
For meds and saline. You were dehydrated
And the white, fluorescent light was
Unforgiving. I sat in a chair by the wall.
My shoes felt tight, too heavy, but I
Didn’t want to take them off in case
They moved you again and I had to follow.
When you’d open your eyes, I’d get up
And stroke your head. You kept
Your shoes on as well, and your feet
Rolled out in a way that reminded me
Of how children rest, legs splayed as
Though the effort to be an adult wasn’t
Worth it. I worried about you, even
After the doctor diagnosed vertigo and
Said you could go home. When I got up
And went to the parking lot for the car,
My legs were stiff, but I moved quickly,
Relieved it wasn’t anything serious,
Relieved we could go back to normal.
Between dozing off and waking, I’d
Thought of all the ways lives can change,
How arteries, nerves, cells are like dice
Rolling on green felt, constantly moving
Until they come to rest without a word
Of warning. It’s a given: the house
Always wins eventually, but all we
Care about is that it doesn’t win tonight.
Dawn was probably starting to come
Up over Biscayne Bay as we drove
Home, but where we were it was still dark.
We slept until early afternoon, when I
Brought you coffee.