(2004)
i lie in my hospital bed
belly bloated like a frog
in a dissection dish
the pain rivals
maybe exceeds
kidney stone levels
over the mound of my belly
i see my father sitting quietly
diagnosed with diverticulitis
i haven’t moved from this bed in days
they feed me thru my veins
they call it n p o
suddenly i’m compelled
to jump up and stumble to the
antiseptic bathroom that’s spitting distance
from the footofthebed
i burst coagulated ocher liquid
i hear my father’s voice
are you all right?
greatly relieved
i sigh
his smile chuckles
thru the bathroom door
(1985)
john ceravalo is lying in his bed
friends huddle in the corner
exhorting him to hang on
i step over the uneaten food tray
and enter the room
i haven’t seen john in five years
he was lean then
now he’s pallid and gaunt
ravaged by AIDS
he manages a meager smile
i bend over and look into his glassy eyes
i say i’m sorry to see you this way
i share how much he means to me
his open heart and soft decency
his astute ear and tuned dexterity
how his piano exercises
relaxed my hands
forever
i touch his chest
his smile
broadens
he tells me
he is in
so
much
pain
i rub his chest
he says his legs
are on fire
i say
it’s ok
to let go
i walk down the long corridor
on the sparse street
i am bathed by
a squinting sun
As I read this at 3.39 am in bed last three days fell off my bike wound up in emergency now home. Body very sore and broken collarbone. I am relating to your poem.
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