A shift of light
behind the eyes
and I dream of life
separate from my body.
Then my body breaks,
or should I say
shudders into waves of stars,
like sea tides caught confused
in some small spangled pond.
They say I cry out, unaware.
I only know a kind of
scary peace, then around me,
voices, and the room returns
as clear as you, doctor,
now before me.
I would give you anything
to stop this parting:
mind from knowing and
flesh from flesh—
and yet
it’s that dark hand I like.
How it catches me
and, angry, shakes me.
Then, forgiving, simply
lets me go.
Note: Dostoevsky suffered from a rare form of epilepsy called “ecstatic epilepsy.”
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Cortney Davis, a nurse practitioner, is the author of five poetry collections, most recently “Daughter,” poems that honor her daughter’s struggle with breast cancer during the pandemic. Davis is the author of three memoirs and co-editor of three anthologies of creative writing by nurses. Her honors include an NEA Poetry Fellowship, three CT Commission on the Arts Poetry Grants, the Prairie Schooner Poetry Prize, the Wheelbarrow Poetry Prize, a gold medal Ben Franklin Award, a Tillie Olsen Creative Writing Award, and two CT Center for the Book Awards (poetry and memoir). www.cortneydavis.com.
© 2023, Cortney Davis
Halfway Down the Stairs 