Despair

I.

you.

Alone.

Together.

There was nothing

to say. Words failed

us. Hauuuuuuh.

Me in the chair.

You on the bed.

Life is not

fair is

what I wanted to say

not cough and

swallow.

You didn’t even 

look 

when the nurse said 

it's a beautiful day

outside.

The Emergency Waiting Room

The walls contained a rainbow of brochures, rife 
with photos—peaceful faces, gladly sick.
And sadder, breathing though, the waiting room
contained: abused and injured, worried-wells,
the homesick, lovesick—handful very sick.  
We formed a true ensemble (though bit off),
our moans and coughs, concocting many tunes. 

As arctic poppies turn to sun and light,
our eyes pursued the coats of lustrous white.  
Our ears, like arid soil before the rain,
attuned to rhythms—every uttered name. 
Our tongues so keen to free the muted pains 
that ravage us (like mildew spread on bloom).

The doctors, nurses, come and go, as though 
we're just a senseless garden, sleeping, rows
of drooping tulips, shriveled aloes, scorched
forget-me-nots (below fluorescent lights).
Or weeping willows, bleeding hearts, instead: 
a "bleeding man", and not a "man" who's "bled." 

And then, as phones of ivory snored and bounced, 
and starvers tango-danced the Coke machines, 
while drunkards raised the standards of obscene,
I heard my name—misread but still—pronounced.  
And after hours of wait: So sweet to hear! 

My savior stood—a gardener—scanning fast, 
horizons of our field of yellowed grass.
A prophet—he—my rock; my healer; hope; 
he threw across and down my well a rope, 
to plant me in a vase, my own, at last, 
to make me human newly—healed and whole. 

My leaves uncoiled, my petals straightened out,
I turned to him, towards his light, his sound— 
a myth (though other foot was on the ground). 
He signed towards the circus, yes, the clown: 
No longer was there doubt, I'd seen his eyes 
alight on me: All hail the chosen one!

The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve

The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve....
eleven hundred weeks—before me—flashed:  
the doctors, nurses, students, staff, the rooms, 
and soon, the judge and jury, lawyers—theirs 
and ours—harangues on mercy, blame; intent 
and chance, revenge and justice....Time we spent
rewording and remaking life: I'm numb
with dolor, fury, horror, guilt, and shame; 
the runes of woe, my daily torture, now
tattooed inside my wasting folds of flesh. 
Emotions cling, unsaid, unnamed—preserved  
inside my jaw and limbs, my blood and bones,
the meanings lost, just piles of words and words.  

The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve—
and for a moment going o'er the curb—
now swerved about the purple traffic cones  
(thus marking borders of my tortured nerves).