Poetry

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Infusion Blues

for Jamie

You lie still, stunned,

pinned to specimen bags

draining fine lines of fluids—

yellow, gastric green, frothing brown

through thin tubs curving

inside the pit of your nose

attached to your stomach's button

pushing into your anus and

poking the tiny eye of your penis.

Another, taped to a thread-

like vein on the back of your hand

pumped in clear liquids, nutrition,

medicines, infusing your clogged body

in the steady mechanical rhythm

of a Rolling Stones riff—

Some kind of ventilator

—every three seconds, all night long

as, outside your darkened room

the bright racket of late shift nurses

tend other children trying to rest.

At some point during the night

before the dreadful medical men

materialize in your room for morning rounds

to loom over your bags and tubes

and scowl with masks of concern

over what progress you are making

tethered to their metrical technology,

I lean over you, quiet child,

bristling with throbbing tubes, in and out,

and in the chill air try to rub warmth

across your bent back and tight arms

urge comfort through immobile hips

my sorry efforts meant to sow

false assurance this will all end soon.

Lying patient as a pilot light

you will not rouse, but do

instruct me to defy this state

with stillness and perfect calm

and a sigh, imperceptibly small,

huffed through the one side of your nose

the doctors neglected to stuff.

DONALD LEVIN

"This is an insightful body of work, filled with humanistic soundings that represent our days, past and present. These poems are crafted and well written, their attention to meter and rhythm wonderful, strung beautifully across all the acoustic instruments that contain reminders of life and all its complex realities. We see Levin's subject, as well as himself, naked and human...painstakingly well wrought, bringing the reader directly into the room. . . . These are poems that force us to value ourselves, our lives, and our very humanity."

—Michael Paul Ladanyi, poet and editor

Bird in the Basement

In a flash, fist-sized, feathered,

the desperate sparrow flings itself,

trapped, across the dank

basement. A common problem—

a colony of chatty birds perched

at the chimney's warm edge

when one, overcome by

monoxide fumes, tumbles down

the flue's tin length and lands,

thumping itself awake

against the cocked damper to spill

with dignity shot onto the furnace's

hard mesa, where, coming to

in its dim new jail, peeping companions

fading memories in its feathered brain,

its terrible thrashing of wings

and frantic twitters signal

for me (downstairs to launder

the week's basket of dirty clothes)

a sign. A sign, for sure, though

what this frightened flying shadow

heralds, I can't decide.

One less bird in the world,

the landlord grumbles when I

explain the problem. While the owner

tries to find an agent to control

this unexpected critter, I put out

a lake of water in a china bowl

and on a plate alongside a slice

of bread torn apart like an old god

to propitiate the life that sails

above the cellar floor and weeps, broken-

hearted, for the safety of the open air.

for Jamie

You lie still, stunned,

pinned to specimen bags

draining fine lines of fluids—

yellow, gastric green, frothing brown

through thin tubs curving

inside the pit of your nose

attached to your stomach's button

pushing into your anus and

poking the tiny eye of your penis.

Another, taped to a thread-

like vein on the back of your hand

pumped in clear liquids, nutrition,

medicines, infusing your clogged body

in the steady mechanical rhythm

of a Rolling Stones riff—

Some kind of ventilator

Some kind of ventilator

—every three seconds, all night long

as, outside your darkened room

the bright racket of late shift nurses

tend other children trying to rest.

At some point during the night

before the dreadful medical men

materialize in your room for morning rounds

to loom over your bags and tubes

and scowl with masks of concern

over what progress you are making

tethered to their metrical technology,

I lean over you, quiet child,

bristling with throbbing tubes, in and out,

and in the chill air try to rub warmth

across your bent back and tight arms

urge comfort through immobile hips

my sorry efforts meant to sow

false assurance this will all end soon.

Lying patient as a pilot light

you will not rouse, but do

instruct me to defy this state

with stillness and perfect calm

and a sigh, imperceptibly small,

huffed through the one side of your nose

the doctors neglected to stuff.

In a flash, fist-sized, feathered,

the desperate sparrow flings itself,

trapped, across the dank

basement. A common problem—

a colony of chatty birds perched

at the chimney's warm edge

when one, overcome by

monoxide fumes, tumbles down

the flue's tin length and lands,

thumping itself awake

against the cocked damper to spill

with dignity shot onto the furnace's

hard mesa, where, coming to

in its dim new jail, peeping companions

fading memories in its feathered brain,

its terrible thrashing of wings

and frantic twitters signal

for me (downstairs to launder

the week's basket of dirty clothes)

a sign. A sign, for sure, though

what this frightened flying shadow

heralds, I can't decide.

One less bird in the world,

the landlord grumbles when I

​explain the problem. While the owner

tries to find an agent to control

this unexpected critter, I put out

a lake of water in a china bowl

and on a plate alongside a slice

of bread torn apart like an old god

to propitiate the life that sails

above the cellar floor and weeps, broken-

hearted, for the safety of the open air.

explain the problem. While the owner