PARADOX

It's December 27th in the Emergency Room.

Hours pass
     with little change;

A thin man wrapped in the tattered remains
     of someone's discarded coat
     huddles in one corner
     then shifts to another
     cautiously clinging to the warmth
     of the cold, molded plastic, bathroom tiled, place.

Two girls
     one four, the other six,
     bounce and flit
     from stranger to stranger
     announcing with excitement
     they're wearing their Christmas clothes;
     asking names;
     asking whys;
     hungrily glancing at the toy my toddler embraces.

A tall boy stumbles across the threshold
     clutching his side;
     blood, crusted in crimson globs
     is randomly disbursed across his face.

Children gather, pooling their change to share a small bag of chips
     from the vending machine.

"There's vomit on the floor." calls someone to the clerk.

     Housekeeping is paged.

     They're paged again.

     The foul mess begins to dry.

A young woman excitedly displays her growing collection of aluminum cans
     to her stone-faced companion;
     words gush from her mouth in English, then Spanish, and English again
     as if the two
     were interchangeable.

The Old Ones
     dressed in a montage
     of axle greased shirts, polyester uniforms, home patched boots,
          and hand made shawls
     sit in silence.

     The patience of Job
     was something they learned
     long lines ago.

I have no patience.
My child is ill.

Somewhere behind the counter
     where clean people
     dressed in white coats and scrubs
     shuffle through papers
     in short-lived appearances
Is my husband
     pulling the strings
     letting them know
     we don't belong here;
     letting them know
     we cannot wait;
And as we are ushered ahead of the throng
     into the halls
     where gurneys are strung
     an infant rolls by
     in it's own plastic box;
     a drug addict moans;
     and a child, no more than four,
     comes smiling
     into the pediatric room.
     The burns on her feet, so deep and infected, they may never heal.

I want to take away the burns.
I want to clean the clothes,
     wipe the vomit from the speckled tiles,
     hand out blankets,
     feed the hunger,
     and hold the people in my arms
     until the pain
     disappears.

But it won't.
And I can't.

My daughter is ill.
     She is all I can hold.
     She is all I can feed.
     She is all I can clean.

Life is not fair.

     I leave
promising myself I will not forget;
praying we will never need
to return;

And the smiling child
cries out
in pain.


December 28, 1995

Delicate Places

We're treading on potato chips
all about the house.
We forgot to clean the party up
now we're playing Strauss.
The waltz is wearing weary
We're dancing on the crumbs.
See us flounder fleetingly
in the sledge
of our lives
all the lies?

The potato chips are broken.
I'm beginning not to care.
They are there.
They are there.
So why care?

There's a Woman in the Grocery Store

There's a woman in the gorcery store.

She'll be a doctor's wife some day.
They'll live in a house with just enough room.
A swing set will sit in their yard.
The children will always be neatly well dressed,
A minivan for her own car.
And once every month, when the need will arise,
someone else will be cutting her hair.

No more second-hand-me-down table and chairs
or second-hand-me-down clothes.
No more long waits in endless lines
while the baby turns from squirms to cries
and tattooed women drown the air with ciagarette smoke.
No more nervous days, wondering when more money might come,
knowing for certain the ever-present fear
of eviction, hunger, or cold.

She's a woman in the grocery store
with food stamps to pay the bill
surviving the shame of the moment
through a vision of something better
and miraculously
the minutes
pass.

BE

Things we need
do not include
-wrapping paper
or the present it holds.

-that last minute
ice cream Sundae.

-everything on sale
just because it's on sale.

Things we need
do not include
the latest car
the biggest house
designer clothes
gourmet meals . . .

No.

All I need to do is breathe.

Quit breathing.
Then you'll have some serious problems.

Give me food
Shelter
Clothes

And my ice cream Sundae
will always be
You.

That present without paper?
You.

That super sale item worth amazingly more than the miniscule cost?
Unquestionably, indubitably, incredibly and always
You.

So do me a favor
suck in that air
let it out
do it again.

Eat.
Sleep.
Survive.

BE
for me.

I promise I'll return the favor
even if it isn't enough to pay you back
for everything you give to me
every day
every hour
every minute

You
are what I need.
BE
and let me breathe.

The Gnat

Martha sat inspecting
a gnat upon the wall
wondering all the while when it would fall,

But
instead
drunkenly it wobbled
from the surface

into nothing

like some Divine Assistant sustained it's life there
         in mid air.

Martha watched a moment
dazzled
then furious with envy
smashed the helpless creature
         between her thumb and finger.

Suicidal Thoughts

I could take the pills in my hand.
With a little water it would be easy.

My hand is shaking.

Some people say that life is hard and then we die.
So why not end it now, before the hard part gets too big?

There is nothing better than nothing.

Now I see my children.
They are crying.
I am on the floor asleep.
Their sobbing will not wake me any more.
They beg for my attention.
They sit, pathetically lingering by my side
alone.


The pills will have to wait this time.

I hold my little ones
and weep.