VII.

In the PICU, the bow of my right shoelace falls out; linoleum dragged—

in the PICU, I count two minutes between cries for sucrose coated pacifiers,

five for an occluded TPN, fifteen for low oxygen plinth waves, every

four hours Precedex; sponge baths daily—

seven translucent tubes tunnel; one bilious remover. Another, a respirator shushing

the minutes and hours and CCs of weeks we’ve measured life by—

seated next to a phalanx of infusers reading Bulgakov, disheartened by ingredients

needed for a vampire named drink; a pandemic exacts itself outside —

our hair thickens, curls in myth and isolation; migraine cries muted with sugar water.

Saguaros beyond the window glass ignore us, millimeters by millennia—

1980, I grew the decade with my mother wired and incision stitched;

that I’m ineffective against your hunger, I tire, spiral inward toward indifference—

once, I disappeared to Philadelphia, left for the funeral of my only grandma, returned

to a single accomplishment: roof repair during earthquake, green swirling skies;

shí awé’é nothing much matters other than you’re here; the weeks week. Rubberized beds

in other units stripped of sheets, you sleep and I see you—

SCHLAG