What do you bring to the confessional?
Wasted hours; a kind thing undone,
and another, and another; or some
singular crime, a thought or deed
that left a wound, some innocent
bereft of confidence and cheer?
Have you taken what was not yours
to keep; kissed one not yours to claim?
Or is it deeper, darker than these?
Did you see your path was cold
and steep, so turn an easier way?
Have you scoured your heart of love,
set it to harden in a kiln of rage?
Drop it on the tiles, then. Let it break.

Perhaps, like me, you live in a town, rather than a city or poor rural area, and assume that things are like they used to be at your local emergency hospital. That's what I assumed, if I thought about it at all. Five hours in the emergency room with a friend (she's fine now) has cleared up that misconception.

I shot that sign, above, during our wait. The sign says -- for those who can't see the image --

Thank you for your patience. The Emergency Department is experiencing unusually high patient volumes. This is causing delays.

It certainly is. 

For the entire time, I kept hoping, not only that my friend would be seen soon, but that the man across from us, his hand held up and wrapped in ice, had at least been given something for pain. Something more than ice.

I asked: Why? Why are you seeing so many more patients?

Because, I was told, so many more people are without insurance, and have nowhere else to go.

Do you think health care reform is irrelevant to your life?

If so, you are mistaken.

[By the way, the 911 folks were wonderful. What a great job!

And what do you do? 

Oh, I save lives.]

I'm posting all three parts here, because I think it is one poem.  Also, just to say -- this exercise has resulted in something much different than my usual. Whether this is a good or a bad thing, I can't yet tell:

I.

the walls are filled with the lives of children
what appears to be an exit changes to a trap
you have everything to lose

oil rainbows the water, a thin & dangerous sheen
that pain you call love pulls you away
there is no point in stopping

in the middle of the mountain road
an old woman walks in the wrong direction
she is thin & frail, she wears a red coat

years have passed, buildings torn down, rebuilt, renovated
each place you sail into more beautiful than the last
sometimes she can be heard, crying in the lake

the sun drops into the sea like a stone
you repeatedly forget what you have remembered
this part lasts forever

  

II.

this is how it happens
static in a closed room
an electrical hum

I open my hand
sparks escape from my palm, crackling
like petting a cat in the dark

you reach out & touch my face
a cradle, a caress
it's warm there, where our skins meet   

  

III.

you diminish in my arms & I want to take you into my body
the sky is washed with green light
you are not cold       you are not there 

a small forest grows from fallen trees 
we build houses & friendships around us like crypts
a string of mussel shells crosses the path       you will have luck

the earth holds me up.       feel that, you say.     feel it.
I shake off the fear and make a place for myself
where your edges touch my edges       there is pain

we watch skipping stones of light on the water
the sky is nearly cloudless & goes pink at sunset
the moon comes up one day from full, with a face and a soft aura

I try to find my own name
the river reflects nothing     it absorbs the light
I can't carry this mask much longer

   poetry mini-challenge

this is how it happens
static in a closed room
an electrical hum

I open my hand
sparks escape from my palm, crackling
like petting a cat in the dark

you reach out & touch my face
a cradle, a caress
it's warm there, where our skins meet

   

unearth -- RWP minichallenge I

   poetry mini-challenge