Ode to the Emergency Room

Blossoms the color of eggplant

spread like lichen on her belly.

The skating-rink room jabs

icicles of light into her eyes.

A plastic band is placed on her

wrist, and when someone takes her

hand she notices her own ragged

nails—half covered in

chipped pink

polish, while behind her

someone starts filling her veins

with another sort of heaven.

Then, seawater, sky,

the heartbreaking sun in her eyes.

And eagles, hundreds of eagles

on a small tree on a small island,

huddled together like these

blue-capped servants

now tending

the rosebush of her body.

Before, she didn’t notice

all the different types of tulips

or that her neighbor Carlos

limps, or how the words acorn,

bluebell, wren and willow

were vanishing quietly

from the mouths of children.

Before, she didn’t understand

when a lover whispered,

if he had two lives he’d give her one.