11.13.06
Emergency Room
White coat whispers condolences
to black & white bridegroom,
crooked duck-billed cane leans in a corner,
pregnant woman sets off Geiger counter,
Rostafarian knits table-mats,
child-vomiting-directions on the wall,
Koreans lost in General Hospital;
“Will someone please answer that phone?!”
Orange-awninged woman watches ambulances through blind slats,
patient Washington to registration,
corrupted chap from Cheltenham paces in straight lines,
commercial jingles dance on the ceiling,
washed-up camp director lays wounded camper across the chairs,
occasion for reading “Patient’s Bill of Rights,”
Morris of the duck-billed cane complains greedily
about his crazy whippet of a wife,
smeary-faced Power Ranger refuses to answer the phone.
copyright 1996
11.09.06
“She told me once” and “Kuwaiti Camel”
She told me once
when she is dying,
she only wants to see
(if she can see)
the face of her nephew
there at the side of the bed;
that it is because of him
she stands a chance of getting into heaven
(if there is a heaven);
it is because of him
she won’t have to make amends,
do penance, seek redemption,
or wait for the blessings of a priest;
it is because of him
that she caught a glimpse
of what it’s like to have a child
and love him.
Kuwaiti Camel
You went missing
after the Iraqi occupation
5 years ago;
you had gotten lost amid the flames
and smoke that settled
on the hot dry desert
after the Storm.
The miracle was that you weren’t killed,
and found your way back,
after all this time,
to Mohammad al-Auwaisheer,
who wrote a poem
(in his happiness)
praising your loyalty.
You were in perfectly good health,
but Mohammad was surprised
when he found out you were pregnant.
copyright 1996
11.01.06
“Snow” and “Braiding”
Snow
like a cold blanket,
an arctic shroud, white,
like Christ’s hanging from the Easter cross;
redemptive and pristine,
an almost welcome cover-up;
clay for mitten sculptures,
like a new infant’s soul,
a momentary treat,
warm tongues, chattering teeth.
Braiding
I answered you when you called
and sat before you Buddha-like,
leaning back against your legs,
facing away, looking out on the lagoon.
Your fingers worked quickly,
strand after strand,
squeezing little bits of foil,
threading beads two at a time.
You spoke in island melody,
expressing breeze and heat.
I thought you might tell me a story
of Africa, or the Arawak.
Lifting my face to the Caribbean sun
I dreamed this was my island
and not yours.
copyright 1997
