On the shows
paddles are charged,
and all are clear.
He beeps back,
a gift from nylon hands
armed with solemn oaths
and perfect hair.
I wish I knew
when I shocked the poor man.
It’s violent;
ninety-nine and bound
for cracked ribs,
the family’s phone-voice clear
for everything done, doc.
He sloops out from gasps,
on slick sheets,
jerking, from my own vitality,
the room more piercing
than his own end.
*
I’ve said I’d give anything
for my own blood
— that which left him
all those years ago —
to beep back.
Now I don’t.
Footnotes
This article has been peer reviewed.