Southwest Hospital, Main St.

Our motto, carved, glares out of every wall:
“That we may not lose sight of the vision.”

The lights are always on here, even when it is dark.
No end to the bleeding and dying.
The sirens wail endlessly, endlessly the cars
go out to bring the bodies in for dressing.
The hospital is understaffed and running
on vision and a dire urgency
of need. We do not lose sight--but in this silence
between the sirens, in the dim flickering
of humming lights, our vision tunnels.
There is no rest, here. Always the call
to another room, another arrival
needing
fresh sheets new bandages
set bones stitches relief of
pain strengthening exercise
nourishment compassion
Who answers these must never call, must never
need

in this place--O harsh
the many mornings,
and darker it becomes.
O have we never known our vision?

O the thousand cries in the dark, unheard.
O the stoop behind every door, before
opening another one, until
the day was over.
O the seven times
too late it was to speak, and none took heed
because there was no room.

Too late. No room.
O blindness of the seeing.

All the smiles propping up a weary mouth.
So much fraternization, so much insurance.
Such pressure to be fit, to be effusive,
to be formless
and void, to be conformed
to all that is sterilized and fit
for human consumption--for the staff
must never bleed
in this place, else they would infect
the injured.

“That we may not lose sight
of the vision.”

“that I may receive my sight.”