|
| |
ARE YOU SAFE AT HOME?
By Victoria Bosch Murray
It was a colander, I answer
when asked once again why I’m
five hours in the emergency room
watching a family on the other side
huddle with
a serious injury, unlike my
laceration, silly, really,
across the bridge of my swollen
nose, a stitch or two, maybe four
certainly not more, but too much
to ignore. It fell off the fridge.
I never saw it coming. Are you safe
at home? she asks, and then with furtive
pity, We ask everyone.
I use ice, first the crushed stuff
from by brand new side-by-side, long
melted in summer’s hesitation. Then a bag
the intake nurse gives me after she asks
Were you hit? Yes.
By a colander. Husband
hovers four feet away, at the door of the glass
compartment, a cubicle of privacy in plain
view. Her eyes shift toward him
and back: birth date, insurance, next of kin?
Every hour on the half, it’s to the ladies
room, my bladder busy, my curiosity obliges
me to see if this cut crowned by royal engorgement
is as livid as memory, as pain, as heartache,
as disappointment. A man looks at me
and away.
She’s twenty five, pretty, her name
badge backward, I wonder
if she even works here: I’ll be treating
you tonight, until the doctor comes, that is.
No plastic surgeon on call in this ER.
They’ll glue it shut, but first questions.
How did it happen?
A colander, enamel, with flowers,
[my mother gave it to me when I was pregnant at twenty
with my first girl, heavy enough to damage
the nose I inherited from her as well.
Her nose is sweet, unscarred,
then she asks with limpid understanding,
Are you safe at home?
He’s next to me, tapping on a lap top,
business. We should talk. About
what? Stiff complaints, whispered
aches, bruised misunderstandings. When’s the last
time we spent so much time
together? The man two seats down pauses;
the elderly woman to our right
looks up from People. I can hear them
listening. You’re never happy.
The nurse is quick. Follow me, she says
and averts her eyes to the chart, the sanctuary
of her profession.
She uses my given name
puts me in a room
the far back corner, messy with plaster
dust, ripped packaging, paper clean white
sheets, neon lights. I lie
on my side, legs curled
a question mark. The doctor enters but doesn’t say
that which I can feel in his palpating fingers, the soft painless
application of ointment, the removal of scales
as he blesses
the surfaces of my now unfamiliar face:
I heard the story, he says.
|
| |
|
|
|
2008 Wolf Moon Desk Calendar
We are pleased to announce that we have put together another snappy desk calendar
featuring work by Maine photographer Clif Graves.
5 1/2" x 5"
2008 Wolf Moon Calendar just
$10.00 each
More Info |
|
Some of the fine
stores
where you can find
Wolf Moon JOURNAL
More Info |
|
Wolf Moon
Photo Note Cards
More Info
|
|
|
|
