The Call Comes at Midnight

You get the devastating news in the corridor.
Your eyes slide down the sterile washed out
green walls outside the room where
your father still breathes. The door
not even closed, just a curtain of birds
with sharp beaks between you.

You get the devastating news
in the airport bathroom, the faucet broken,
the hand towels stuck, a small boy
almost overbalanced
by a blue Elmo suitcase as he walks
alone toward the door.

You get the devastating news, and the flights are all booked.

You remember that boyfriend of your mother's
who didn't die of being drunk.
You remember the day you drove
angry in the rain, the pool of oil on the road.
You remember black stiches, blood
seeping at the edges.

You get the devastating news, and you must
wrap dishes so they don't crack.
You write out your full name. When you get
the devastating news, a large liquid silence
tries in vain to devour the skin of the sky.

Deborah Bacharach

American Journal of Nursing, October 2013
http://journals.lww.com/ajnonline/Citation/2013/10000/The_Call_Comes_at_Midnight.18.aspx