Artifacts of Jupiter

We stop looking for my missing body
My loneliness halves when half my body thickens its livid paint
I visit pain
Is there a way to sketch this without making an elegy?
I leave some of my soul where we give up, three lines below, four squares
over to the right of my twisted mouth spiraling her pole-dancer legs about a beam
My brainstem gone
The brain is nothing without its stem
The body is nothing without the brain
My ability to swallow departs Earth, its many marionette strings lose their stage-right beat
My esophagus a neophyte, untrained
I look through my high-school backpack for my words
Could I prepare if all my words left?
The ICU insists it is 4pm on October 24, 2022
Some of my clenched words stay there, the ones that come out shoulder-first, breeched
A blueprint of a person isn’t that person
My childhood stays there too, listens for the steam rising up
the stairs from Cream of Wheat on the rosebud comforter, my eyes loll backward
in their sockets to take in the panels in the roof
Two terrestrial bodies aligned in the untouched dawn, my brother and I observe
the planetarium dad domed onto the ceiling until I can no longer take
in my own brain
The silvery orbs of our seeing reach to call out constellations
I want to rip up that cardboard city and reassemble it in that
preternatural glow, justify its axis, my body perpendicular to this planet
I want to indent my throat with the bid of each new thought
The afternoon’s hands turn rough, steal my words out of my pockets
I feel myself feel lost
I make a practice of loss
My poems aren’t docents in the museum of pain
The eyes of my poems are egrets of where we were, who we were there
We stop looking for my missing body, but is its dark photocopy, the celestial globe
we absorbed through the lichen of our bodies, still lit up there
whole and parallel with yours?
The wind inhabits my shadow now

I Can’t Be Turning Thirty

1.

I remember my body, that brief spell persisting
but an hour, its sheen in the bath
water-licked rolls of belly
one pressed against another
blueprint of veins on porcelain
the rusted tap
a paisley pink towel hanging on its hook
flip flops and dirty toes
the secret flowering of breasts
the epiphany of a groin
harbingers shouting: Where are you going, girl?

2.

Sirens whine through the night
erase the memory
of every text message unsent
every social media post unposted

Misdiagnosed for months after the stroke
my seventh cranial nerve weeping, a tilted frown
the doctors’ anarchy of voices
no fingers to grip in the cold-numb

My god an iron lung
hardly pumping
bags of dust
in and out

3.

Outside, December jogs by like a freight train
twilights deliver fuchsia
textiles of eyes
frostbitten planes of faces

My father whistles Mozart’s 11th piano sonata
I pretend I don’t hear
worry on his tongue
he shuffles outside my bedroom
like he’s going high-up
in an office building with tiny windows
in a neighborhood he doesn’t know

4.

The starched anonymous
pedestrians: Are you ok?
a whole world I cannot touch
cellophane I cannot crack
a dried-out egg
on my idle back

Photographs visit me—
my existence, grocery bills and tickling grasses
coaches to and from Boston
straightened research papers in hands
smiles, lust
intact formulas of light and darkness
falling from me like diadems
hugging their phosphorescence

The limb
of the willow
demands nothing
of life

At 27, verging towards a doctorate at Harvard, Elaine Miriam went for a mundane procedure to stabilize her neck. Somehow, she survived what doctors surmised was unsurvivable: a brainstem stroke secondary to a physician’s needle misplacement. In the wake of the tragedy, she discovered the power of dictation and the bounty of metaphor. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in the Stardust Review, the Sacramento Literary Review, the Amsterdam Review, and many others. Her first collection of creative nonfiction, From Scientist to Stroke Survivor: Life Redacted is forthcoming from Lived Places Publishing in Disability Studies (2025). Her first collection of poetry, Instructions for Selling-Off Grief, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books (2025).