Rora wakes up to the sound of Monday morning news,

except, she doesn’t know what it’s talking about: 

nonsense, fighting over agreeing, 

two sides of the same coin. 

The nurse comes rushing, 

plumps the pillows and takes her pulse, 

all stellar. 

 

The doctor finally shows, wearing a tie 

and slick bottom shoes. 

“Rora,” he says, “You’ve been in a coma for a very long time.” 

“What’s a coma?” her lips tingle. 

“Almost like a long nap.” 

Sleep sounds like a glorious thing, 

away from the news reporter, breathing static. 

 “How long have I been… under this spell?” 

The doctor hesitates, “100 years.” 

Rora thinks, how illogical, how unproductive. 

“I must’ve been tired.” 

“How do you feel?” 

Rora touches her arm, clammy, dry. 

Her chapped lips respond, “More awake than ever.” 

“Is there a party we should contact?” 

“Party?” What an odd thing to call. 

“Someone on your side.” 

Rora guesses that is reason for celebration. 

They don’t unplug her machines, 

she hadn’t need any - her heart 

was beating on it’s own. 

Just asleep. 

 

“What woke me up?” she asks the doctor,

one foot out the door. 

“That’s a good question,” he twists,

uneasy, “maybe it was the news.” 

“News?” 

So that’s what the men in suits 

do on TV. 

“Politics.” 

Rora watches the news while 

her paperwork is processed. 

She doesn’t need help 

“readjusting”. 

 

She forms an opinion, 

collects her belongings, 

and walks out a free woman.