Having just been left for good by you--your tongue
flicking over your lips like a thirsty newt, your cheeks plush with screwery--
having been left so, I walked into the backing-up path of a trash truck.
Its ding-reverse bell must have been defunct.
It was the side-rider's YO! that halted it.
Don't hurt her baby, don't hurt her! the side-rider called in a franticky chant.
The driver leapt out.
MISS, MISS! cried the side-rider, MISS!
You were nowhere in sight. There I lay in my neighbor's hedge,
outlandishly unhurt. I looked up. The driver had
green eyes, a tall tan black man with those farfetched
feline eyes, like say maybe
one of his foremothers volunteered for a shot at the Nordic gene pool,
or, on the other hand, consider that one etymology of motherfucker
cites masters raping female slaves, the children forced to watch. . .
but is this my business how the man got green eyes?
I'm glad I had this thought because I don't know what to do with it.
Forgive me, I said. My boyfriend dumped me, I wasn't looking . . .
We were shook--me, driver, side-rider
by the divine simplicity of the Near Miss.
So they took me home. The brothers escorted me back--
two blocks cruising high in the cab
like the Empress of Metropolis.
Don't even worry 'bout it, the driver said.
If he don't come back, go on and catch you a bigger fish.
And the side-rider meanwhile balletically leapt
and landed and kept on leaping,
on and off the rolling truck, heaving those garbage bins
light as confetti, light as burned billet-doux,
the sweet spent tickets to my heart.
:: Belle Waring, in Green Mountains Review 8:2 (1995)
Showing posts with label belle waring. Show all posts
Showing posts with label belle waring. Show all posts
5.10.2010
It Was My First Nursing Job
and I was stupid in it. I thought a doctor would not be unkind.
One wouldn't wait for a laboring woman to dilate to ten cm.
He'd brace one hand up his patient's vagina,
clamp the other on her pregnant belly, and force the fetus
through an eight-centimeter cervix.
She tore, of course. Bled.
Stellate lacerations extend from the cervix
like an asterisk. The staff nurses stormed and hissed
but the head nurse shrugged, He doesn't like to wait around.
No other doctor witnessed what he did. The man was an elder
in his church. He chattered and smiled broadly as he worked.
He wore the biggest gloves we could stock.
It was my first real job and I was scared in it.
One night a patient of his was admitted
bleeding. The charge nurse said, He won't rip her.
You take this one.
So I took her.
She quickly delivered a dead baby boy.
Not long dead--you could tell by the skin, intact.
But long enough.
When I wrapped him in a blanket, the doctor flipped open the cover
to let the mother view the body, according to custom.
The baby lay beside her.
He lay stretched out and still.
What a pity, the doctor said.
He seized the baby's penis between his own forefinger and thumb.
It was the first time I had ever seen a male not circumcised
and I was taken aback by the beauty of it.
Look, said the doctor. A little boy. Just what we wanted.
His hand, huge on the child,held the penis as if he'd found
a lovecharm hidden in his grandmother's linen.
And then he dropped it.
The mother didn't make a sound.
When the doctor left, she said to me in a flat voice
I called and told him I was bleeding bad.
He told me not to worry.
I don't remember what I said. Just that
when I escorted her husband from the lobby
the doctor had already gone home. The new father followed me
with a joyful strut. I thought Sweet Jesus Christ
--Did the doctor speak to you?
--No ma'am, the father said.
I said quick-as-I-could-so-I-wouldn't-have-to-think--
The baby didn't make it.
The man doubled over. I told him all wrong.
I would do it all over again.
Say--
Please, sir. Sit down. I'm so very sorry to tell you--
No. It's been sixteen years.
I would say, I am your witness.
No. I have never told the whole truth.
Forgive me.
It was my first job
and I was lost in it.
:: Belle Waring, Dark Blonde (Sarabande, 1997)
One wouldn't wait for a laboring woman to dilate to ten cm.
He'd brace one hand up his patient's vagina,
clamp the other on her pregnant belly, and force the fetus
through an eight-centimeter cervix.
She tore, of course. Bled.
Stellate lacerations extend from the cervix
like an asterisk. The staff nurses stormed and hissed
but the head nurse shrugged, He doesn't like to wait around.
No other doctor witnessed what he did. The man was an elder
in his church. He chattered and smiled broadly as he worked.
He wore the biggest gloves we could stock.
It was my first real job and I was scared in it.
One night a patient of his was admitted
bleeding. The charge nurse said, He won't rip her.
You take this one.
So I took her.
She quickly delivered a dead baby boy.
Not long dead--you could tell by the skin, intact.
But long enough.
When I wrapped him in a blanket, the doctor flipped open the cover
to let the mother view the body, according to custom.
The baby lay beside her.
He lay stretched out and still.
What a pity, the doctor said.
He seized the baby's penis between his own forefinger and thumb.
It was the first time I had ever seen a male not circumcised
and I was taken aback by the beauty of it.
Look, said the doctor. A little boy. Just what we wanted.
His hand, huge on the child,held the penis as if he'd found
a lovecharm hidden in his grandmother's linen.
And then he dropped it.
The mother didn't make a sound.
When the doctor left, she said to me in a flat voice
I called and told him I was bleeding bad.
He told me not to worry.
I don't remember what I said. Just that
when I escorted her husband from the lobby
the doctor had already gone home. The new father followed me
with a joyful strut. I thought Sweet Jesus Christ
--Did the doctor speak to you?
--No ma'am, the father said.
I said quick-as-I-could-so-I-wouldn't-have-to-think--
The baby didn't make it.
The man doubled over. I told him all wrong.
I would do it all over again.
Say--
Please, sir. Sit down. I'm so very sorry to tell you--
No. It's been sixteen years.
I would say, I am your witness.
No. I have never told the whole truth.
Forgive me.
It was my first job
and I was lost in it.
:: Belle Waring, Dark Blonde (Sarabande, 1997)
10.13.2009
The Tip
It was boss cook’s fault. He left
the window wide open and now
the stockroom was crawling with cicadas.
He yelled and stomped them with his big
boot feet. “Stop!” I said, and ran for the broom.
Out front the regulars hollered for coffee.
One cicada escaped and made an emergency
landing on the counter. Pernell, who worked
graveyard shift at the power plant,
coaxed the thing onto his hand.
The trustful creature
didn’t dart like a roach. It perched
right on Pernell’s knuckles
calm as a man who’s worked a tough shift
with a clear conscience.
“He don’t eat
much,” said Pernell.
The cicada had a body like a dog poop,
crystal wings and orange eyes that broke the light
weird, like a 3-D postcard of Jesus. Miz Boulden
cringed. Her lipstick was on crooked
again. The cicada rubbed its hindparts
on its wings and chirred. Outside,
its tribe revved up the heat, like a UFO.
I said, “How do they know when to
come back?”
“God tells them,” said Pernell.
“God nothing,” Miz Boulden said. “Last time they came
my son was still living. That was when?”
“ ’53,” Pernell said. Boss cook hollered at me
to get sweeping. Pernell clucked: “Why
you work for that stringy-hair sucker?
You too sweet.”
I swept and swept.
The cicadas backflipped and scratched
the air. I threw them all
—living and dead—out
the back door, and let it
slam.
The sun cut through the pines.
I wished I was back in the woods with the bugs,
listening.
When I got back to the counter, Pernell had left.
“He took his pet with him,” Miz Boulden said.
“That boy’s not right. Now, where’s my eggs,
missy?”
Up the hen’s butt, I thought.
I bit my tongue and cleared Pernell’s
cup. Underneath, crisp as an insect’s
wing, I found the new five.
:: Belle Waring, Refuge (1990)
the window wide open and now
the stockroom was crawling with cicadas.
He yelled and stomped them with his big
boot feet. “Stop!” I said, and ran for the broom.
Out front the regulars hollered for coffee.
One cicada escaped and made an emergency
landing on the counter. Pernell, who worked
graveyard shift at the power plant,
coaxed the thing onto his hand.
The trustful creature
didn’t dart like a roach. It perched
right on Pernell’s knuckles
calm as a man who’s worked a tough shift
with a clear conscience.
“He don’t eat
much,” said Pernell.
The cicada had a body like a dog poop,
crystal wings and orange eyes that broke the light
weird, like a 3-D postcard of Jesus. Miz Boulden
cringed. Her lipstick was on crooked
again. The cicada rubbed its hindparts
on its wings and chirred. Outside,
its tribe revved up the heat, like a UFO.
I said, “How do they know when to
come back?”
“God tells them,” said Pernell.
“God nothing,” Miz Boulden said. “Last time they came
my son was still living. That was when?”
“ ’53,” Pernell said. Boss cook hollered at me
to get sweeping. Pernell clucked: “Why
you work for that stringy-hair sucker?
You too sweet.”
I swept and swept.
The cicadas backflipped and scratched
the air. I threw them all
—living and dead—out
the back door, and let it
slam.
The sun cut through the pines.
I wished I was back in the woods with the bugs,
listening.
When I got back to the counter, Pernell had left.
“He took his pet with him,” Miz Boulden said.
“That boy’s not right. Now, where’s my eggs,
missy?”
Up the hen’s butt, I thought.
I bit my tongue and cleared Pernell’s
cup. Underneath, crisp as an insect’s
wing, I found the new five.
:: Belle Waring, Refuge (1990)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)