A few months
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
A few months, they said,
as if time were a thing you could measure
in clean lines, neat blocks on a calendar.
But here, in this bed,
time spills out like water,
slow, and without edges.
I used to walk without thinking,
legs a silent promise of movement,
the ground a whisper beneath my feet.
Now, I am held in place,
caged in the same sheets
that smell of stillness and waiting.
It’s strange, the way the world shrinks
to the size of a room,
and a window becomes your only map
to the days passing by,
the birds carrying on their endless flight,
as if nothing has changed.
For them, I guess, nothing has.
But for me, everything is pause.
The quiet hum of my own breath,
the ache in bones knitting back together
slow as winter thaw.
I want to say I’m grateful—
that this is a lesson,
some gift of patience
wrapped in the discomfort of healing.
But truth be told,
I just want to walk again,
to feel the ground solid beneath me,
to move without thought,
without this weight of waiting.
And yet, there’s nothing to do
but listen to the clock
tick softly in the corner,
counting down the seconds
until I become myself again,
or something close enough.
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My loyalty
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
My loyalty lies
With you
And the pizzeria
Below our apartment
You tend to me
In bed, with
Two broken legs
And you know
But he does not
He must think
I have abandoned him
And found someone new
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About the Author
Paul Frederik Carlsen was born in Germany, but grew up between three continents and languages. He is interested in many creative outlets ranging from poetry to photography. He completed his MFA in poetry at the University of East Anglia, UK. Currently he resides in Spain.