Thursday, June 28, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
wither
watching the pebbles of disappointment
gradually displace its waters
each plunk, perhaps, insignificant
until sheer volume renders
shallow its pull
it no longer matters whether the promise
is half empty or half fool
there's still not enough
hope remaining to quench
a desiccated heart's thirst
the sun draws blood through skin
tenderized by the sting of blown sand
leaving parched dreams
and echoes of passion
waiting in deception's desert for love to rain
~ ~ ~
a poster of this poem is available
~ ~ ~
06/26/07 by lucky-E-leven in Texas, USA
I loved every word of this poem, but what really got me was the time-travel it took me on ... spanning such a long period of time in a few succinct lines. Very powerful. Very painful and beautiful at the same time.
07/25/07 by mismused in USA
Beautiful metaphors, lovely construction, heartrending, way too emotional, but compelling. A sweetly written lament of the heart.
Friday, June 22, 2007
13
Thirteen years ago today – at just about this time, too – I was in the recovery room following the emergency c-section delivery of my first child, and I was planning his funeral. I'd just spent two hours in the operating room watching too many doctors scurrying around – cutting me open without regard for how I'd be sewn back together, yanking a big baby from my gut and doing absolutely hideous things to him to get him to just BREATHE.
I held a pillow over my gut as the anesthesia wore off 'cause it felt like my sobs would tear open the incision. Right before they moved me to a room, a wheeled bassinet-thingy passed by and I got to peek at him – buried in tubes and wires. They flew him to the tertiary care NICU across town. A helicopter, just to cross town.
Less than 24 hours later, I convinced the doctors to release me so that I could be with him. "I'll be at another hospital, for Christ's sake!" I screamed at them. They let me go – against their better judgment. They did it because they were certain my son would not survive, and they didn't want to deprive me of the chance to spend some time with him.
I never told anyone how much I bled those first few days. I was afraid they'd make me leave his side. I leaked everywhere: blood from below, tears from above, and milk from my breasts.
I remember the parade of forms – consent forms for various extreme measures: lung surfactants, ECMO, Broviac ... Words no parent should ever have to hear.
I remember how huge he looked compared to all the preemies.
I remember them saying, "Don't get attached. He won't survive to leave the hospital."
I left his side only when forced: when the doctors made rounds, nursing shift changes, and when my husband spelled me for a couple hours so I could shower. During those times, I left a tape recorder there for him – with my voice reading to him. I slept in the rocking chair beside the ... I suppose you'd call it a bed, sorta.
I remember the day I returned after rounds to discover that one of the two ventilators (the "jett puff" one) had been removed and the ugly drainage tube sticking out of his side had been pulled. That was also the day that they told me he wouldn't need the ECMO after all. Extra Corporeal Membrane Oxygenation. In other words, lung bypass. I nearly fainted.
One by one, the IVs came out – but not before he'd blown so many of them that it looked like someone put cigarettes out on his precious skin. They even shaved patches of his thick, dark hair for scalp IVs.
The nurses snuck me food, although eating in the NICU was against the rules. They wheeled in a breast pump every few hours. By the time they started him "on calories" (through an NG tube – oh, 'scuse me, naso-gastric tube for the unscarred), I had over 3 gallons of expressed breast milk waiting in their freezer.
I remember each prognosis – carefully worded pessimism. One particularly callous neurosurgeon said, "It only takes a brain stem to be a baby." One warned, "He'll never even recognize you." (Wanna bet, asshole?)
I remember the hospital social worker pulling me aside to deliver information about institutions: "You can have more children, honey. Place him here. He'll get excellent care. Get on with your life." (As if.)
I remember holding him for the first time – when he was three weeks old – and the entire NICU staff standing around us, crying and applauding.
I remember bringing him home – when he was four weeks old – and, for the first time, nursing him directly from my breasts. (They never did know that I wet my pinkie with breast milk and put it in his mouth at the hospital – while he was "eating" through that damned tube. I wanted him to taste, damn it!)
I remember every damned time he did something that someone said he'd never do.
Ten years later, he was named as one of our community's "most influential citizens."
Today, he became a teenager.
I held a pillow over my gut as the anesthesia wore off 'cause it felt like my sobs would tear open the incision. Right before they moved me to a room, a wheeled bassinet-thingy passed by and I got to peek at him – buried in tubes and wires. They flew him to the tertiary care NICU across town. A helicopter, just to cross town.
Less than 24 hours later, I convinced the doctors to release me so that I could be with him. "I'll be at another hospital, for Christ's sake!" I screamed at them. They let me go – against their better judgment. They did it because they were certain my son would not survive, and they didn't want to deprive me of the chance to spend some time with him.
I never told anyone how much I bled those first few days. I was afraid they'd make me leave his side. I leaked everywhere: blood from below, tears from above, and milk from my breasts.
I remember the parade of forms – consent forms for various extreme measures: lung surfactants, ECMO, Broviac ... Words no parent should ever have to hear.
I remember how huge he looked compared to all the preemies.
I remember them saying, "Don't get attached. He won't survive to leave the hospital."
I left his side only when forced: when the doctors made rounds, nursing shift changes, and when my husband spelled me for a couple hours so I could shower. During those times, I left a tape recorder there for him – with my voice reading to him. I slept in the rocking chair beside the ... I suppose you'd call it a bed, sorta.
I remember the day I returned after rounds to discover that one of the two ventilators (the "jett puff" one) had been removed and the ugly drainage tube sticking out of his side had been pulled. That was also the day that they told me he wouldn't need the ECMO after all. Extra Corporeal Membrane Oxygenation. In other words, lung bypass. I nearly fainted.
One by one, the IVs came out – but not before he'd blown so many of them that it looked like someone put cigarettes out on his precious skin. They even shaved patches of his thick, dark hair for scalp IVs.
The nurses snuck me food, although eating in the NICU was against the rules. They wheeled in a breast pump every few hours. By the time they started him "on calories" (through an NG tube – oh, 'scuse me, naso-gastric tube for the unscarred), I had over 3 gallons of expressed breast milk waiting in their freezer.
I remember each prognosis – carefully worded pessimism. One particularly callous neurosurgeon said, "It only takes a brain stem to be a baby." One warned, "He'll never even recognize you." (Wanna bet, asshole?)
I remember the hospital social worker pulling me aside to deliver information about institutions: "You can have more children, honey. Place him here. He'll get excellent care. Get on with your life." (As if.)
I remember holding him for the first time – when he was three weeks old – and the entire NICU staff standing around us, crying and applauding.
I remember bringing him home – when he was four weeks old – and, for the first time, nursing him directly from my breasts. (They never did know that I wet my pinkie with breast milk and put it in his mouth at the hospital – while he was "eating" through that damned tube. I wanted him to taste, damn it!)
I remember every damned time he did something that someone said he'd never do.
Ten years later, he was named as one of our community's "most influential citizens."
Today, he became a teenager.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Have It Your Way
Candi sauntered into the room. “Ready?”
He gulped, nodded.
“Okay, then. Lemme show you how she’s done. I’m sure you’ll be a pro in no time.” She ran her fingertips across the cold stainless steel counter—a caress, really. “Put one here and the other here—side by side and spread open. Like this,” she demonstrated with a saucy wink.
“Now, smear both sides with this creamy lubricant. Rub it in. Oh, yeah! Just like that,” she purred. “You’re a very fast learner, Ricky. I just knew you’d be good at this!”
A blush crept up his neck, and the room spun on its axis; that being her tongue. He tried in vain to wrench his focus away, but he just couldn’t take his eyes off her lips—lips that would look divine wrapped around his…
“Ricky? Pay attention, now. We’re getting to the tricky parts. You wanna be very careful how you lay down your meat. Too hard, and you’ll bruise her buns.
“I really prefer to get my hot meat on a soft bed: cool and crisp, maybe even spritzed with mineral water. It’s a nice touch, and she’ll taste better. Trust me on this one. I know what I’m talkin’ about.
“Now, some people like a top sheet. I think it’s a bit cheesy, but—well—your mileage may vary, as they say. I wanna see my meat—wanna be able to savor it, roll it around on my tongue without having anything stuck to it, y’know?”
“Um…uh…yeah...” Ricky’s articulation, never stellar, took a dive and met his cock somewhere slightly southwest of the equator. Only the waistband of his BVDs kept the twain from meeting.
Candi hooked a finger under his chin and lifted it so she could look him in the eyes. “But sometimes—just every once in a while—I like to double my meat. I might not look like I can take it—‘cause I’m kinda little—but I assure you, I’m quite capable. You’ll meet others like me, too, once you get good at it. More than you’d expect. I can even introduce you to a few once your training’s completed.”
A lone bead of sweat trickled down the back of Ricky’s neck.
“Now,” she continued, “let me tell you why this is gonna be your dream job—if you do it right, that is. When you can give really good, really hot meat—and you can do it on demand—they’ll just keep comin’ and comin’ and comin’ like there’s no tomorrow. They’ll beg you for more. You’ll be slappin’ meat and creaming buns all damned day long. It just doesn’t get any better than that!
“You’ll develop a fan club. They’ll come to you beggin’ you to slip ‘em some meat—maybe even askin’ you to slide a pickle in there for some extra fun. Nothin’ wrong with that! Everyone needs a little variety to spice things up a bit.
“So, tell me, Ricky. How do you like your burgers?”
He gulped, nodded.
“Okay, then. Lemme show you how she’s done. I’m sure you’ll be a pro in no time.” She ran her fingertips across the cold stainless steel counter—a caress, really. “Put one here and the other here—side by side and spread open. Like this,” she demonstrated with a saucy wink.
“Now, smear both sides with this creamy lubricant. Rub it in. Oh, yeah! Just like that,” she purred. “You’re a very fast learner, Ricky. I just knew you’d be good at this!”
A blush crept up his neck, and the room spun on its axis; that being her tongue. He tried in vain to wrench his focus away, but he just couldn’t take his eyes off her lips—lips that would look divine wrapped around his…
“Ricky? Pay attention, now. We’re getting to the tricky parts. You wanna be very careful how you lay down your meat. Too hard, and you’ll bruise her buns.
“I really prefer to get my hot meat on a soft bed: cool and crisp, maybe even spritzed with mineral water. It’s a nice touch, and she’ll taste better. Trust me on this one. I know what I’m talkin’ about.
“Now, some people like a top sheet. I think it’s a bit cheesy, but—well—your mileage may vary, as they say. I wanna see my meat—wanna be able to savor it, roll it around on my tongue without having anything stuck to it, y’know?”
“Um…uh…yeah...” Ricky’s articulation, never stellar, took a dive and met his cock somewhere slightly southwest of the equator. Only the waistband of his BVDs kept the twain from meeting.
Candi hooked a finger under his chin and lifted it so she could look him in the eyes. “But sometimes—just every once in a while—I like to double my meat. I might not look like I can take it—‘cause I’m kinda little—but I assure you, I’m quite capable. You’ll meet others like me, too, once you get good at it. More than you’d expect. I can even introduce you to a few once your training’s completed.”
A lone bead of sweat trickled down the back of Ricky’s neck.
“Now,” she continued, “let me tell you why this is gonna be your dream job—if you do it right, that is. When you can give really good, really hot meat—and you can do it on demand—they’ll just keep comin’ and comin’ and comin’ like there’s no tomorrow. They’ll beg you for more. You’ll be slappin’ meat and creaming buns all damned day long. It just doesn’t get any better than that!
“You’ll develop a fan club. They’ll come to you beggin’ you to slip ‘em some meat—maybe even askin’ you to slide a pickle in there for some extra fun. Nothin’ wrong with that! Everyone needs a little variety to spice things up a bit.
“So, tell me, Ricky. How do you like your burgers?”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
