The
Nurse on Percy
On
the boulevard
moans ricocheted through the first floor
of
the small green cottage—
the high school nurse’s
rental.
Trees
with two-toned trunks,
bubbled texture,
seemed to melt as
we passed.
Our
father told us not to go down that street.
We didn’t
listen.
My
brother and I smoked our cigarettes,
radio blaring from the
sunroof of his black Mustang,
Going 40 in a 25.
Our
father said if he ever caught us on Percy Boulevard,
he would
make sure we never went on it again.
We didn’t listen.
He
told us not to smoke.
We smoked.
We listened to music he
said would make us deaf.
We were deaf.
driving Percy—
too
fast
too loud.
Brassy moans—
music blaring from my
bro’s car didn’t stop the dog’s itch
to
screw the new bitch across the boulevard.
We
felt the hit—
cigarette and spit flew out of my
brother’s mouth
as he slammed the brakes.
We
saw the nurse, “Florence Nightingale” half naked,
run to her beat-up mongrel,
his limbs in curb trash.
We
saw our father stop suddenly behind the front door screen
of
the nurse’s rental.
He shielded his shame, revealed to
us the reason why
we always had to detour.
What
Was Left
My
mother watched my father die.
A blender of crushed tomatoes
exploded
over the wall, rug,
floor,
her.
I
helped her scrape
red chunks:
blisters off her face.
We
pressed towels into the rug,
watched the beige
appear
like dried sand—
the kind we swept off the docks
at
my uncle’s marina.
My
mother cursed the broken top,
remembered buying the blender
for sauce on Sundays.
The
Smell of Alcohol
Mount
Sinai Hospital—
she watched the stiff tube on the
wall
suck memos up over the nurse’s station.
Like a
clear snake ready to attack,
the tube hung still.
She
was afraid,
papers ascended,
end of chute slammed
shut.
Suction made her blink her big brown eyes,
her baby
fingers gripped my right hand tightly.
***
Before
her fevers reached 105,
I saved her from convulsions.
Took
her temperature every four hours,
Gave her St. Joseph’s
aspirin for children,
crushed like orange grizzle in her
applesauce.
104
degrees—
her face flushed,
her ear scorched my cheek
as I got her ready for the sink.
Tepid water and baby
washcloth,
rubbing alcohol in a plastic bowl on the
counter,
vapors intoxicated us.
I
rubbed alcohol over her tiny body—
stainless shined
beneath her little legs,
her hands causing slight, clear
waves
to fold against her belly.
I held her soft back,
gently washed her face, behind her ears,
spots burning
most,
mixing clear with clear to fight the heat.
Strong,
bitter fumes pressed against my temples.
Her
eyes stared at something in the corner:
a part of her fever
lingering from the day before,
a vision in the air,
the
tube at Mount Sinai,
her next trip to the doctor,
where
she’ll watch the “snake,”
cry, and say,
“Mommy, dat?”
***
At
the bank drive-thru,
I watch the metal door slide open
like
a vertical confessional screen
Container carries my pay
check,
up, down the tube.
She
sits in the passenger seat,
a young, beautiful woman.
Not
remembering our trips to the hospital,
she watches me watch
the check’s path.
I see a clear vein carrying her
blood
in a fevered body
ready for the sink,
to catch
the fever of unknown origin,
eliminate the snake.
I
feel her long, strong fingers grip my right hand.
“Relax,
we know where it’s going,” she says.
“Mom,
the money’ll come back.”
I laugh,
check the air
for the smell of alcohol.
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