Partial Toll Map
This arrow marks the path from frenzy
to drawl, fragments flung skyward
before drifting back. The emerald is the park,
the whorl of footprints in ash, helicopter
searchlights panning rooftop to bedroom.
Over here is the thunderstorm that sent
everyone to the street in pajamas.
The blue line is our train, stalled within
the river. This is the route that ran steady
to slow drip, pre to post. The choked
beltway. The spikes are men with guns
riding garbage trucks, subway cars.
The lumen widens to accept more.
The lightning bolt is the stairwell you took
when the call came. This is where
we veered. Saint Christopher poised
like an action hero on the dashboard.
The bare space is the smell of our city
burning, empty gas tanks. The wings
denote the airport where he never
landed. The flicker is the candle waiting,
waiting. The lights we strung. This is where
we tried so hard. Here’s the cistern,
gavel of rain. Sympathy’s hushed hallways,
too many children carrying flowers,
snapshots. This is where it got so heavy
we had to cut the line. A September
harbor with no boats. That’s the bridge
where I first loved you. This is what
held us up before it all collapsed,
the senseless legend. This is where
we pay, where we don’t breeze through.
Shovels rasp on snow-glint, a neighbor’s breath bent to passage. Candescence scuffs the kettle as John reaches across me for salt, something in parchment. The pattern of good hands. George says if this was rain, we might be drowned by now. Every flurry needs a crystal lattice. In 1954 James Elam proved expired air was enough to maintain oxygenation. Liberty to fly. The dog surveys the room, eternally vigilant. Everyone paddocked, he settles until a siren whirls past and his howl rises in unison. We all join in. We always do, the four of us, chins tilted to the moon in solidarity. I want to fasten them to me. It’s not random, this overcast. I want to see us not in contrast to the woman I led from the trauma bay to the family room last night. Hours oscillate into shifts of each, all. Everyone had a different version, how the child was dragged through the jagged sun. How the snowbanks and ice made it impossible. Jane points at me, delighted. You howled so hard you’ve almost cried, she says. We stow the boots and wool. They have a kit for making your own snow globe. The manikin’s flaccid face was modeled after a young woman submerged in the Seine. Rescue Anne was everyone’s first opportunity to practice resuscitation. I can’t tell them how the woman begged us to try again, held my hand against her chest as she rocked, as if my hand were the broken thing, as if I were the one. The collection awaits its weather. I know the storm will resume and they will sleep better for its haven, the dog twitchy with dreams beside them. After goodbye, my mother always stands at the window and waves until we let go the sightline. Once I returned unannounced with the spare key and found her weeping. She said, when you leave, all the nests tumble. I can’t agree that the moon resembles a man on the roof with a flashlight. I can’t let us capsize. Jane flings her arms around me. The unwound clock observes its scripture. The instructions read: affix your diorama to the inside of a lid. This is the shaping and reshaping. Add glitter to a jar of oil and crushed shells. I flinch at the slammed drawer. Visibility decreases. We flood the sky, all the little houses awash as the fragments billow into one province of blizzards.
Perched above the Valley of the Mills,
I envision my scarf preceding me
into this fern-lush canyon cut
from ancient erosions. My arms,
distrustful of their hands’ grip
on railing, prickle and brace.
As a child, I never knew this.
Unafraid, I leaned over balconies,
evaded my mother on bridges
and boats, where she buckled me
into life vests, lassoed my waist
with safety lines. I say unafraid
meaning, I felt an impulse
of wingbone, believed I could
stay afloat on the acres of windwater,
glide on the sink-rise of air’s surface.
Here, bottle green rock flora tumble
from windows. Streams, still faithful
to the gorge but cloistered from sea,
throw mist. I bend to trace their path
but my pulse surges. Two decades ago,
the first fear awoke when an elevator
dropped eight floors, then shuddered
to stop. Alone, I fell to my knees,
pried the doors to find myself
caught by cables and stop clamps.
Suspended, believing, I called
for help, an appeal later revived
in a chapel’s azure hush before
my shifts in the ER, where each night
another harbor emptied. Fires unlit.
Helena taught me how to prepare.
It’s the only sacred act we do,
she said. This is what the family
remembers. And you, before falling
asleep. We had checklists. Stop
the saline. Dispose of strewn vials.
We wiped blood and feces,
called organ banks for harvest.
Once, a small gust of idle breath
moaned forth as I eased a tube
from a bolstered airway. Look up
to clear your eyes, Helena instructed.
Always keep your composure.
I protected the head with pillows
as I rolled the body, replacing
soiled linens, lifting arms
into clean gowns. I uncurled fingers
from bedrails and rosary beads,
coaxed eyelids. After the family left,
I zipped the bag. It was almost
tender, like a tucking in, until
I covered the face. I blamed
shiftwork for my tilting quiver
on escalators and train platforms.
I stood back but it never ceased,
this insoluble recoil on any ledge.
In the ravine, moss, holm oak,
and oleander obscure the abandoned
wheat and sawmills. In 2001,
a British tourist died here.
The path was slick, but he wanted
to photograph the ruins.
I picture his gasp and thrash
as a sail heaving, grasping
for catch. Then his gone-ness
clear from the twisted silence
on stone. I look an octave away
toward the foothills of sky,
sign of sun and moon as one,
but the glare stamps the image,
returns it to my closed eyes,
unbound and relentlessly bright.
Our cells grow tired wrestling ancient assailants. Mortar and shingle crumble. Tent pegs cling to buffeted ground as locusts unhinge joints, consume pulp like a river’s rise through mangrove. We need a fireproof casing, says the cargo pilot. Because you can’t tell what’s inside until it detonates. Bacteria resist and our potions lag like kite strings. Fuselage scatters over protected grasslands, the boggy pockets of skull, womb. We’re reviving the firing squad because injection is too slow. We’re sewing up the good eye so it isn’t lost. The tradeoffs are ceaseless. Headless amberjack rot on beaches as lasers scan parcels—what must be delivered now, what can wait in the vessel. Like a gallows’ floor, panels twitch back, dropping boxes into time zones. Starlings or bats? Without a bar code we can’t decide whether to take cover or hail the rush of wings. Engine failure can be accommodated, unless the pilot remains in a state of disbelief. Most prayers glide on one wing. The same defiant chaperon who calls the body home forgives it for breaking. The unsightly fish stink but now more kingfishers stand regal along the shore, their black mohawks fluttering in summer’s fetid breeze.
Shirley Stephenson is a poet and nurse practitioner working on Chicago’s west side. She has lived and worked throughout the US, and in Latin American, the Caribbean, and South Africa. She believes that engagement with the humanities sustains and reconnects us.
#resilience #intersection #interconnectedness
Miotte, Pierre. Astronomy: an oval chart showing how different planets affect different parts of a man’s body. . Wellcome Library Collection. https://wellcomecollection.org/works/hb5gwzgg. Accessed on November 1, 2020.