Photo by Marcelo Leal on Unsplash
In the Quiet Room
I walk back from intensive care,
automatically shuffle for solitaire
and report the numbers to siblings
as I try to deal:
pressure urine cc’s and temp,
peeling off the first three cards
and nothing changing.
Tubes everywhere
down from the bottles
up from the bags;
they disappear inside the bed
and emerge from mouth nose
chest gut and bladder.
Kidneys swim in backwash;
the body swells with the tide of infection;
pale fluid seeps from arms.
They make us wash our hands
each time we leave his room.
Dad, you are their giant filter:
they are trying to percolate
the life inside you; but death is a sponge
and too soon gets the final cleaning.
Watching Her Niece Marry Jesus in the ‘60s
The novitiates line up, a mass wedding
of young girls arranged on the one hand (of God)
by parents and church elders, and on the other
in white satin dresses and veils
prepped as if for a degas painting
to receive a simple gold band and cowl
and agree at this service to a life of service.
Though I’m told Jesus is
a realistic Spouse and won’t ask of you
anything you can’t give Him or do for Him;
like a lot of husbands, He
may never speak directly to His wives again,
though require their constant
obedience and quite frequent
begging for His forgiveness.
Remember, supplicants, such vows bind eternally,
and this witness protection program requires
a change of name (taking a man’s saintly first name),
clothing that hides any scent
of individual identity, and many switches
in future location. Furthermore,
forevermore in this Man’s army,
no whimpering is tolerated
once you wear the wimple. And no whispers
allowed after vespers,
which might only lead to chaos
within His religious order
and veiled threats of damnation.
Sirens Howling Overhead
the house suddenly empty
wife and children running
down the basement steps
escaping fleeting pockets
of sheering high and low pressure
one last glimpse of home
from the door cracked ajar
the slash of maroon coat caught
in the shuddering closet door
torn window screens
the clouds changing like ivy
from green to rose to brown
uprooted when the deafening
local train of violence touches down
afterwards blossoms still on the branches
the chickens survived though stripped of feathers
overturned couches and chairs
the cat food still in the bowl
four steak knives in a perfect square pattern
driven into the mom-van’s radiator
the truck’s disappeared
and up through the trees
slices of blue
through the foliage
the ground soft and sunken
flecks of roofing
glittering beneath puddles
and the rain dripping down stunned faces
and the hail of chaotic debris
of cancelled checks, curling
photographs, dirty magazines,
loose change, torn t-shirts,
cracked tv and a favorite recliner
landing in dad’s new apartment
eighty miles away