Medicine
Peter Schmitt is the author of five collections of poems, including Renewing the Vows, in which the following poem (first published in the Bellevue Literary Review) appears. You can find more information at his website, http://www.schmittpoetry.com/.
**
THANKSGIVING: VISITING MY BROTHER ON THE WARD
Behind the thick, crosshatched glass of the cruiser,
my brother, back for the holiday, breathes
more slowly. A phalanx of uniforms
cloaks the open door, murmuring to him
where he sits. The carving knife is somewhere
out of reach, none of us so much as scratched.
Inside, the bound bird cools on the butcher block.
Later that night I move through many doors, each
locking behind me, each inlaid with the same
heavy glass as the squad car. Through the last
I see my brother's face, fixed as on a graph,
ordinate, abscissa. When he sees mine
he retreats from the common room to his own,
a bare cell he shares with a narrow bed.
He will not speak to me, at first. His fingers
move in perpetual chafe, like a mantis,
his lifelong nervous habit, the edges
of a newspaper shredded on the bed.
This time, his eyes say, we have betrayed him
as never before. This time, he seems to say,
he cannot find a way to forgive us.
At last I persuade him to join the others
finishing the meal, their plastic utensils
working the meat, their low voices broken
by stray whoops of inappropriate laughter.
We sit, though, in a separating silence,
my brother's hand already eroding
his napkin, eyes distant with medication.
If only he were faithful to himself
and took his daily pills ... But what is the point
of such a constancy when the world itself
has so profoundly turned away? As tonight
I will leave him here, leave all of them here,
the psychotics and depressives, my brother,
to lie in their beds and stare at their ceilings,
and I know that for at least this visit
he will not come home, where our parents now sit
in darkness, their faces streaked and damp. And when
we drive him to the airport, an unmarked
police car following as an escort,
he might be a foreign dignitary
bearing developments back to his country ...
For now, though, it is just two brothers, beneath
a glaring bulb. The expression on his face
would ask, Have you gotten what you came for?
And again I have no answer for him.
But there, at the floor of the bed, all around
the room, are crumbs of paper, as if he were
leaving a trail by which he might be found.
- Peter Schmitt
- Life, Death, And Organ Transplantation - Part 1 Of 2
Several years ago, when I was a family medicine resident taking overnight call at Lancaster General Hospital in Pennsylvania, I was called to preside over my first - and so far, only - organ donation. A young woman had suffered an irreversible traumatic...
- Guest Blog: Having An Mri/waiting For Laundry
Jan Bottiglieri is a writer and editor, and a poetry student in the MFA program at Pacific University. She lives in Schaumberg, Illinois. The following piece was first published in the Bellevue Literary Review. ** HAVING AN MRI / WAITING FOR LAUNDRY I...
- Guest Blog: The Rudeness
Rick Kempa lives in Rock Springs, Wyoming, where he directs the Honors Program at Western Wyoming College. "The Rudeness," first published in the Bellevue Literary Review, dates from a time a few years ago when his mother, who is afflicted with Alzheimer's,...
- Guest Blog: Anatomy Lesson
Nellie Hill's poems have appeared widely in literary journals in print and online. "Anatomy Lesson," first published in the Bellevue Literary Review, also appears in My Daily Walk (Pudding House, 2008). Nellie has an acupressure practice in Berkeley,...
- Guest Blog: I Want To Work In A Hospital
Cortney Davis is the author of four poetry collections, most recently "Leopold's Maneuvers," winner of the 2003 Prairie Schooner Poetry Prize. She is co-editor of two anthologies of poetry and prose by nurses, "Between the Heartbeats" and "Intensive...
Medicine
Guest Blog: Thanksgiving: Visiting My Brother on the Ward
Peter Schmitt is the author of five collections of poems, including Renewing the Vows, in which the following poem (first published in the Bellevue Literary Review) appears. You can find more information at his website, http://www.schmittpoetry.com/.
**
THANKSGIVING: VISITING MY BROTHER ON THE WARD
Behind the thick, crosshatched glass of the cruiser,
my brother, back for the holiday, breathes
more slowly. A phalanx of uniforms
cloaks the open door, murmuring to him
where he sits. The carving knife is somewhere
out of reach, none of us so much as scratched.
Inside, the bound bird cools on the butcher block.
Later that night I move through many doors, each
locking behind me, each inlaid with the same
heavy glass as the squad car. Through the last
I see my brother's face, fixed as on a graph,
ordinate, abscissa. When he sees mine
he retreats from the common room to his own,
a bare cell he shares with a narrow bed.
He will not speak to me, at first. His fingers
move in perpetual chafe, like a mantis,
his lifelong nervous habit, the edges
of a newspaper shredded on the bed.
This time, his eyes say, we have betrayed him
as never before. This time, he seems to say,
he cannot find a way to forgive us.
At last I persuade him to join the others
finishing the meal, their plastic utensils
working the meat, their low voices broken
by stray whoops of inappropriate laughter.
We sit, though, in a separating silence,
my brother's hand already eroding
his napkin, eyes distant with medication.
If only he were faithful to himself
and took his daily pills ... But what is the point
of such a constancy when the world itself
has so profoundly turned away? As tonight
I will leave him here, leave all of them here,
the psychotics and depressives, my brother,
to lie in their beds and stare at their ceilings,
and I know that for at least this visit
he will not come home, where our parents now sit
in darkness, their faces streaked and damp. And when
we drive him to the airport, an unmarked
police car following as an escort,
he might be a foreign dignitary
bearing developments back to his country ...
For now, though, it is just two brothers, beneath
a glaring bulb. The expression on his face
would ask, Have you gotten what you came for?
And again I have no answer for him.
But there, at the floor of the bed, all around
the room, are crumbs of paper, as if he were
leaving a trail by which he might be found.
- Peter Schmitt
- Life, Death, And Organ Transplantation - Part 1 Of 2
Several years ago, when I was a family medicine resident taking overnight call at Lancaster General Hospital in Pennsylvania, I was called to preside over my first - and so far, only - organ donation. A young woman had suffered an irreversible traumatic...
- Guest Blog: Having An Mri/waiting For Laundry
Jan Bottiglieri is a writer and editor, and a poetry student in the MFA program at Pacific University. She lives in Schaumberg, Illinois. The following piece was first published in the Bellevue Literary Review. ** HAVING AN MRI / WAITING FOR LAUNDRY I...
- Guest Blog: The Rudeness
Rick Kempa lives in Rock Springs, Wyoming, where he directs the Honors Program at Western Wyoming College. "The Rudeness," first published in the Bellevue Literary Review, dates from a time a few years ago when his mother, who is afflicted with Alzheimer's,...
- Guest Blog: Anatomy Lesson
Nellie Hill's poems have appeared widely in literary journals in print and online. "Anatomy Lesson," first published in the Bellevue Literary Review, also appears in My Daily Walk (Pudding House, 2008). Nellie has an acupressure practice in Berkeley,...
- Guest Blog: I Want To Work In A Hospital
Cortney Davis is the author of four poetry collections, most recently "Leopold's Maneuvers," winner of the 2003 Prairie Schooner Poetry Prize. She is co-editor of two anthologies of poetry and prose by nurses, "Between the Heartbeats" and "Intensive...