Acclimation

My grown son, stroked.
One side now useless, left
a future fragmented.

Circles of hell  ̶
ER, ICU, ward, rehab,
a living limbo.

His California
seasons no longer saunter.
Bed, wheelchair, cane.

Summer’s ripe fruit,
bitter. He thirsts for hope amid
fall’s diminishment.

He jokes he has
a reptilian eye. Jerky
scanning, hunting.

His vision, the target,
wounded in buckshot. The brain
at war with itself.

The damaged eye lures
the other, splatters light
in Picasso abstract.

Reading a book, screen,
cell, tablet. Arduous. How
will he ever work?

Sinister arm, hand,
fingers. Frozen, still. Thank god
he is right-handed.

He struggles to do
simple tasks like turning his key
in the deadbolt.

Buttons now enemy.
Magnetic clothing a welcome
miracle.

One handed engineer.
Keyboard drills like childhood
piano lessons.

First training, a shock.
My classmates are much worse off.
At least, I can talk.

What does he dream?
Running, flying, loving?  An end
to his long winter?

The stroke has renewed
our family bond yet comfort
now chained to fear.

Joy in the redbuds
on a sun-drenched day.
His courage with each new breath.

Terry S. Johnson recently settled in Alaska after a lifetime in New England where she performed as a professional harpsichordist before serving as a public school teacher. Her poetry has appeared in journals such as Driftwood, Edge, Journal of the American Medical Association, Main Street Rag, The Letter Review, Passager, Slipstream and Technoculture. Terry’s first collection, Coalescence, won a 2014 Honorable Mention in the New England Book Festival, and her second book, Plunge, launched in 2019. Her chapbook entitled the stars, your eyes was just published. www.terrysjohnsonpoet.com