Here's another edit:



The musty smell in the hallway
of bleach and spongebaths and adult diapers
was muted by the clang of metal spoons
against plastic trays filled with pureed pot pies.

I passed the more mobile in the hallway,
sitting in their wheelchairs,
staring at me as if I were some sort of apparition,
mouths agape and eyes wide
when I smiled and said Hello.

I peeked through the doors and witnessed the once alive
succumbing to the labial caress of immobility
and the pelvic thrust of humiliation.
Each staring up at the yellow ceiling,
arms glued to the bed,
unable to stay a thin string of drool
or hold steady the memories floating in
near sighted eyes.
Pneumatic lungs stole shallow breaths.
Dumb mouths gummed for just a little more life,
gaining moments spoon-fed and white-walled,
wasted in an adjustable death bed
while Bonanza blared in the lobby.

When I finally reached you,
you were so small and frail,
your legs bent awkwardly
on top of a bed pad.

There was nothing left to indicate
that you had spent your life
weathering storms so fierce
that your bones bent horizontal to the ground
like young oaks,
holding fast again and again.

There was nothing on the thin blanket
or on the cat picture on the wall
or in the way your long thin hair draped on the pillow,
that told anyone that your spirit
was so magnificent and so bold
that it had the gall to leave your body
ahead of you.

I kissed your head,
and said all the sweet and poetic
things that one imagines saying to someone on their death bed.
I put my hand on your slowly pulsing heart,
trying to divine the exact count of beats remaining.

I wondered if I should find some really profound
last words to say to you,
but none came, so I simply said Goodbye,
and walked ghostlike back down the hall,
overwhelmed by the stench
of the soft slow and dirty fvck of death.

How do you feel about making the verb in the first stanza active?


The clang of metal spoons
against plastic trays filled with pureed pot pies
muted the musty smell in the hallway
of bleach and spongebaths and adult diapers.

That's a good thought. Now that you mention it, I definitely want to do something with it, but I'm not sure if that's exactly it.

I really like your poem, Traci - very much.

One question for you - are you suggesting another interpretation of nearsighted by separating the compound word? I thought about it for awhile and wondered if you were going for the concept of almost seeing (or almost seen) as opposed to nearsightedness, but then I found myself wondering if, by breaking up of the word would cause more of a break in fluidity than it would offer in expressiveness?

Still, that's a really minor question about a piece that I think is quite marvelous.

Thanks for pointing that out, H! I actually just thought it was two words for some reason. I want to add a line after it with something about astigmatism and the past, but I haven't quite found it yet.

Thanks for the input, and the compliment. :blush:

Again, my own take:

---
I kissed your head
and said all the sweet, poetic things
one imagines saying to someone on their death bed.
---

Ok, here's the draft I'm turning in tonight. In a week or two we'll workshop it in class and then I'll revise several more times. Thanks tons for all the input! I'm still welcoming suggestions if anyone has any. :)


Bonanza



The musty smell in the hallway,
of bleach and spongebaths and adult diapers,
was muted by the clack of spoons
against plastic trays.
Each compartment filled with pureed pot pies
and blended cookies.

The more mobile lined the hallway
in wheelchairs and walkers,
staring at me as if I were some sort of apparition,
mouths agape and eyes wide
when I smiled and said Hello.

Through the doors I watched the once alive
succumb to the labial caress of immobility
and the pelvic thrusts of humiliation.
Each staring up at the yellow ceiling,
arms glued to the bed,
unable to stay a thin string of drool
or hold steady the memories floating in
nearsighted eyes like astigmatisms of the past.
Pneumatic lungs stole shallow breaths.
Dumb mouths gummed for more life,
gaining moments spoon fed and white walled,
wasted in an adjustable death bed
while Bonanza blared in the lobby.


You were in a child sized bed with rail,
atrophied and face-glazed,
your legs bent awkwardly
on top of a bed pad.

There was nothing left to indicate
that you had spent your life
weathering storms so fierce
that your bones bent horizontal to the ground
like young oaks,
holding fast again and again.

There was nothing on the thin blanket
or on the cat picture on the wall
or in the way your long thin hair spread over the pillow,
that told anyone that your spirit
was so magnificent and so bold
that it had the gall to leave your body
ahead of you.

I kissed your forehead,
said the sweet and poetic
things that one might say to the dying,
and placed my hand on your slowly pulsing chest,
trying to divine the exact count of beats remaining.
I wanted my last words to you
to be heart-achingly profound
but none came,
so I simply said Goodbye
and walked ghostlike back down the hall,
overwhelmed by the stench
of the soft slow and dirty **** of death.

The resolutions thread reminded me that I never posted about this poem's journey. It went through a few more drafts and into print (that I'm assuming no one buys, because you can get the full magazine for free online), but it's sold somewhere, I'm sure. Nonetheless, I was thrilled for my publishing debut.

There's a pic of me thirty pounds ago with it.

Wow! Congrats, Traci! Great poem, and love the photo that accompanies it, too.