Facing Annette
I.C.U., washed up here on this
cold ward's shore. Skittish, bound like
a muzzled seal in a hospital bed. Swimming
out from under anesthesia, out from Skye Island,
Loch Lomond, even Boston's septic harbour. Your
back and front are tartan'd now, with the clever
surgeon's signs. How is it, breathing through a
plastic bagpipe? Speaking with a drug-mumble
brogue? Your heart's in the lowlands of de-
fribulation, but your graceful stubbornness survives,
thrives like the myth of the Celtic Selkie. Pushing
away the dinner tray, you wave us closer. “I dodged
that spear,” you said, “and their water cloak. Now I want
some fin & haddie.”