Debility Poems: Makin’ It?
The hospital is shrouded in a blue gown.
Garlanded with lights, it beckons you, yet
has nothing to offer for helping make it
a little less lonely.
The staccato
clack of each crutch marks the implausible
passage of time, which for all seems to flow
equally, but stands still when you stop watching it.
In which arm will the fluid go tonight?
On which minute does the puncture begin to ache?
The courtyard remains sealed, but on special days
music wafts through landlocked trees. You try to imagine
these denizens dance, holding each other close.
This sight, this love, this gratitude, this despair—
it is only gotten upon returning—
more than once, more than three dozen more times.
A little poke here (the cannula fails to insinuate);
there’s always another vein, another
way to go in deeper, longer���just hold your breath,
facet it close, much too close for relief,
breathe into things—ideas, limbs—once patent nonsense,
now something you’ve finally made secret knowledge.
Last, remember to pull tight your corset of thoughts,
walk upright forward, as each foot follows support,
nod in agreement at the passing man,
who says to you—
