cymbals

1965

You arrive in a rush—

coffee breath—

mind filled

with the “I will”

of the Hippocratic Oath—

Scoring boot marks

into the dusty concrete.

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You are the first.

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Guttural moans and the acidic tang of copper.

Gray curtains and brown paneled walls;

There, a Haemanthus blooming in a barren field—

A violent crimson red.

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He is on his back—arched—

fingers splayed as if resisting a pull

To heaven.

Blood rains from his fingertips.

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You kneel in blood next to him.

Three holes – each the size of your thumb—

Punched in a line.

Your stomach twists and

wraps in your throat.

The oath – don’t forget

your oath.

White gloves snap and

you place your calloused hands on his stomach

and push.

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You can feel it—It comes in pulses,

rolling up your arms.

You press even harder.

Harder—Please.

It wells up between your fingers and the

Crimson drowns the white.

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2017

You peer through the glass

Into a room filled with bound books;

A man there goes through each one,

Holding each page between his thumb

And his forefinger—some marked with tears.

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Piles sit at his feet, torn and worn—‘65 to ’17;

Ink runs onto the floor.

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Your partner lights a cigarette by the window,

The hot orange light beading in the man’s milky eyes.

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He begins to cough—lightly.

Then like gravel,

bloody bubbles bursting deep in his throat.

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Please.

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Your partner quietly grinds out his cigarette

on the windowsill.

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After all these years,

it’s still hard to watch someone die.

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