Painting by Bev Jackson
It's 3AM in Intensive Care and Someone is Dying
I feel the pull to give in to sleep's elephant,
overwhelmed into senselessness,
but ventilator hiss and alarm ping
are poor imitations for the lull
of crickets and whip-poor-wills.No, there can be no sleep
while a dying heart conducts
a concerto of extremes.I hear only music when a pulse descends
adagio to larghissimo.
Complete heart block, the drawn-out wail
of worn-out strings.I hear timpani when an excited heart
percusses into the staccato
sprint of v-tach.There are overtones of holy,
a hush of sanctuary magnifies soles
gliding vinyl floorsI slide my hands into nitrile,
perform absolution for a body's failures—
wash away emesis, feces,
the plasma escaping
a wad of soggy gauze.I sponge at pearls on a face,
sweat that simulates tears
on a marble virgin.All the while a glow
of fluorescence wraps those
who lie quivering or still
beneath this suspended ceiling,
beyond which the moon
prepares to lay its bow
in a velveted case
and rest.
