Photo credits: pexels.com

ICU DIARY

I am getting ready for work,
and I see her in my closet.

The thought of her clings to me
like moisture in my hair,

in my socks rolled up with their eyes closed,
refusing to look at the bruises

that pool where IV lines enter,
or the permanent grimace,

the ravage of chickenpox on her face.

She lives under artificial lights that sing
of the blue clouds mottling her skin,

her skin that is falling away like clothes
that have released the creases that held them

to reveal wounds refusing to heal,

and the shoes have their mouths open,
their tongues sunken,

the hats pile up like complications, the tote bags
lay in a corner like hope, forgotten,

but the underwear—they are folded
and tucked away like secrets

revealed a long time ago to someone close.

 

SCOPE
 

like the laryngoscope that lit up her vocal cords,
or the bronchoscope that dove into her lungs

and pulled out the tenacious mucus,
aspirated food and some dried blood.
 

//
 

I scoped for signs
of a hope that wasn’t hollow:

the numbers on the screen
blinking from yellow to green,

her blue fingers blushing pink,
or simply, a certain kind of silence.

But her body continued to mottle,
and her lips remained blue.

So I cranked up the drips, sedated
and paralyzed her and turned her on her belly.

//

You watched me at the edge of my science.

As the alarms blared into my ears,
and the lights grimaced, questioning my resolve,

I stepped back, waiting for this to end.
I watched the clock, then called time of death.

It was not in my scope of practice to hug you,
but when you reached out, I did it anyway.

 

RECOMMENDATION

after ‘Recommendation’ by Keith Leonard
 

This hotel is truly remarkable.
Here, I can cry in minor sorrow
with a song played live on the cello.
The walls are panels of carved marble,
stiff white napkins primed at the table.
The ceilings are a bold gold and yellow;
like Bob Dylan, I push today until tomorrow.
And yet the opulence falls like a cudgel,

the café serving luscious lamb and cheese,
so tender there isn’t a trace of their screams.
The pillows are plucked from live geese;
I sleep like a baby dreaming sweet dreams.
Outside, the trees are kissed not by the breeze
but a dense, white smog—grand and agleam.

New Delhi, February 2024

HOW TO MAKE CHAPATIS

Sit on the floor and cross your legs,
take a deep determined breath.
Mix atta and water,
then begin to knead—
don’t worry it won’t bleed.
You need to agitate the molecules
till they celebrate
their new-found state.
Keep kneading till they stop
clinging and complaining.
It takes persistence and power,
but you will have them assimilate,
there will be resolution—
you will level them into submission.

( Note: Atta – wheat flour)