Jellyfish and Grit

Maya Klauber

I awake in a hospital bed to what could 

only be a thousand tiny jellyfish infusing 

my veins. Typical. I came here to be healed, 

and now I’ve got a jellyfish problem.
 

They appear relentless too—stinging me 

from the inside out; up & down my blood-

stream. But I wake now to the truth: IV 

infiltration. Medical error. Hot, ballooning
 

forearm & indigo bruises unfurling

like tentacles. Backward motion on a path 

to health that nobody’s ever promised. 

But still, I know there is a refuge—

some place deep inside, with light 

dimly pulsing.  Some place that hasn’t 

yet been used up. I’ve imagined when 

that day comes there might be pain so
 

deep, it may cover my eyes, and stillness

so loud, it’s still again. But that place 

isn’t here. Not next to you, doctor, who 

can’t even remember my name. It’s a
 

good name—one that means something 

to my family. So please know these frigid 

needles are nothing, and my sizzling veins 

don’t scare me. Not when there’s that spot
 

I believe in. And my neighbor over there 

with her cap of ice (whose chemo’s running

low now), I think she knows about it too. 

And we’re not going there quietly.