Squeezed between night’s repeating dry dream
and head honking like a manic goose, the sun rises.
It appears to be pole dancing, far too bright
for the time of day.
Glisten came with dawn and it shimmy shakes my spine
the day long. Ambient sounds invade, echo in empty lobes
where reason dwelled just days ago. I ache to understand —
I pity myself when sleep cobbles hope.
Jacalyn Carley is an author and artist living in Berlin. She began her career as a choreographer and cofounder of tanzfabrik berlin, employing dadaist texts instead of music to great success.
I had Covid last October, it took five days to get a test result. My symptoms were atypical, more shakes and sweats than fever, a lot of nausea, more headache than chest pain—but all in all it didn’t seem urgent. Without having had an oxygen saturation gadget that alerted me to dangerous levels, I’m rather certain I wouldn’t be here now. Reason enough to keep writing. The poem Is It Time To Go Yet? reflects the day before my husband made the call to 911. In hospital for 9 days on oxygen and steroids, the diagnosis was severe Covid. Which has been followed by Long Covid…