In a hospital room lit blue By the rays entering in from the clouded sun A patient sitting up in her bed With a home-knitted hat to keep her warm And blankets on top of her legs Speaking between breaths in her O2 mask She directed her attention to the doctor Her ginger-haired husband Looking at her with listening eyes Occasionally glancing at the doctor Her son with his back to me Speaking matter-of-factly Without …
I’m not the first to think / under my breath, even out loud: / To test positive for Covid. / Even after this morning.
Secret / The caterpillar munching on hair / beneath your scrub cap
Some days, I only feel disillusion of the soul / that yearns for bear hugs, game nights, Nana’s pecan pie.
5:00 am, the first day on the night shift, / six deliveries completed and only one hour remains. / A call from the nurse says the patient in 14 is five centimeters dilated, / and so we enter the room to rupture her membranes.
The clock strikes midnight and just like that, / she’s been laboring for 10 hours as expected, / time flies when you can’t feel contraction pain.
Failure was never an option for me. // Every time I fail… / I am reminded that I have let my country down.
Send us the broken, the battered, / “give me your tired, your poor,” / your torn and tattered.
Just a five-year-old kid / Yet always in and out of the hospital, / Since her first beautiful breath / Through each breath after, / With her life-giving / Yet ever-faltering lungs.
Your bones are beautiful / And your bruises are art
I wish it were different — / Dying patients, struggling hospitals, overworked healthcare workers, / topsy-turvy economies, politicized safety precautions, and the / uncertainty / of tomorrow.
We sit in a clumsy ring / under fluorescent lights, / halfway into the allotted one hour / before we realize that we are having / a conversation born a whole decade ago.