Michael Lauchlan

My mind is not itself. Henri Cole

During your heart attack
I wore a mask in the waiting room

watching as the capitol was breached
while they drew blood
and stuck terminals to your skin.

They beat a cop with a flag and
it wasn’t in the end a heart attack

though the capitol fell and kept
falling and still falls. Now,

I’m waiting in another hospital
reading an old New Yorker
report on Iceland. So much

lava and ruin and cortisol, but
I’m no longer really reading.

My eyes trace lines, words,
letters until I’m only waiting,
thinking of Cole’s line. Nor

mine, I hear my voice answer.
Nor even my voice.

How little remains (I say
softly to a wall-mounted screen

where a couple discuss
granite countertops).