BECOMING 70

 

 

 

                                    I gave up everything

                                    paralyzed

                                    strapped into a hospital bed

                                    movement triggering alarms

                                    I only wanted to get home

                                    but that seemed impossible

 

                                    the kitchen sent up

                                    a big slab of fancy cake

                                    set on my tray smiling

                                    at the apple sauce, mashed potatoes

                                    and a smear of yellow gravy

 

                                    just something else I couldn’t swallow

                                    I thought I wanted to, but the fork

                                    stabbed the air, dropped

                                    clattering on the tray

                                    another near hit

 

                                    my sister came every day

                                    and brought me a chocolate shake

                                    a McDonald’s miracle

                                    of chemicals and carbohydrates

                                    and kept me alive

 

                                    slowly the chocolate worked its magic

                                    my feet shuffled along behind a walker

                                    running in my head, dancing,

                                    tapping out rhythms of all the poems

                                    I’ve made and the new ones

                                    the darker ones I’d yet to write

 

 

 

                                    CASSANDRA

 

 

                        Cassandra works the night shift

                        she gets the midnight premium

                        humming next year’s hits

                        while she takes

                        your vitals

 

                        Cassandra is the night nurse

                        bringing  AmbienCE and nightmares

                        her soft soled shoes snick on the tile

                        backlit by fluorescent light

                        glooming the empty corridor

 

                        a far off wail from the old man’s room

                        he dreams old dreams

                        some forgotten war erasing itself

 

                        Cassandra is the night nurse

                        she leaves at dawn

                        scattering images

                        no one believes

 

                        Cassandra is the night nurse

                        her scrubs whish whish

                        in the early hours silence

                        you’ll be all right, she says

 

                        Cassandra

                                    Cassandra

                        in royal blue scrubs

                                    our half-light corridors

                                    absorb her shadow

                                                           

 

 

                                    FRENCH POLIO

 

 

 

                                    attenz

                                    legs frozen

                                    ice moving up the chest

                                    not an iron lung yet

                                    but I’m seeing my life there

                                    as deep breaths hit a band

                                    drawn tightly around the chest

                                    a mirror over my face

                                    counting ceiling tiles

                                    maybe a wheel chair

                                    clumsy fingers giving up typing

                                    a walker maybe

                                    leaning, pushing along

                                    all my beautiful poems

                                    spread in piles and files

                                    drawers and closets

                                    where no one will read them                  

                                    disappearing like pencil marks on cheap paper

                                    voule vous recycle moi

 

                                    You have wasted your life

                                    need to revise, order, categorize, connect

                                    what should have been done

                                    what wasn’t

                                    too late when life winks

                                    blinks, nods off

                                    frozen

 

                                    the heat of composition

                                    a warm memory

                                    a shallow breath

                                    another

                                    another

                                    l

 

 

 

                                                PARALYSIE    

 

 

                                                fingers tingle

                                                tips unruly

                                                too dumb to hang on

 

                                                breath caught

                                                by a tevlar band

                                                across the chest

 

                                                stomach in revolt

                                                bowels frozen

                                                a small unwavering rock

 

                                                merci  merci

                                                roll my feet into bed

                                                turn me on my side

 

                                                come back with the bedpan

                                                come back with a walker

                                                come back   come back

 

 

© Helen Ruggieri