from Nowhere/ Always/ Everywhere #3

In the waiting room at the hospital
a young man, with a topknot
and brown lakes
for eyes, comforts, in a front harness
his four week old baby.

And I wonder how we did it, the lady
and I— by living apart?
Letting birds fly? Once a week,
flock, once a week, sky?

Meaning-phoenicians, weeks & strongs;
chopped into pieces… The man speaks English
with a Spanish accent. How close they came—
their Monarchy aflame, their version of Jesus:
Boats in the Water, Magic and Mortar.

The child’s head fits into his palm
which strokes and shields and holds
his ear against the time
-partitioner of his heart.

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2 Responsesso far.

  1. Vicky Curtin Vicky Curtin says:

    I wish I could say something intelligent here because I really like this poem; but all I can say is that I’ve spent time in a hospital (as a visitor) this past week and I appreciate the sense that you gather here of observing others from unusual (perhaps) spaces. I find hospital waiting rooms to be intimate realms; in fact, I still recall faces I’ve seen there.

  2. peterlebaige peterlebaige says:

    That last paragraph is like an old oil painting, Dean, Vermeer, let’s say, the tenderness of the moment and that so wonderful ‘time-partitioner of his heart’. You always take your reader right to the bone.

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