UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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CORTNEY DAVIS
Lament How many times have I said, Yes, it’s still early; how many times asked, Are you sure?— then rattled all the options off, speaking calm but quick, as we were taught? How many times have I turned the ultrasound away to hide the moving fetus from a woman’s eyes? How many times measured the womb, a soft, half-filled balloon between my palms, and for that moment held the embryo for whom the only human touch was mine? How many times heard the suction’s growl; how many times emptied out the clotted jar? And how often signed the forms, washed the blood and walked a woman to the door? If in a dream the children all appear to me, a kindergarten of the torn away, whatever will I say? First Night at the Cheap Hotel Tonight, the moon is almost full, its glow filtered through my window’s small, square screen. Down the hall, a man coughs and coughs. There are women’s voices too, tinny, high, like a sound from childhood, the fluted, aluminum milk bottle caps Mother pierced and jangled on a string. In my room, the middle note of the air conditioner and something caught inside the fan, rattling—no, crackling— like the crackling of air under skin, crepitus. Being here is like being sick in a hospital ward without the lovely, muffling glove of illness. In hospital, I would be drowsy, drugged into a calm that accepts the metal door’s clang, the heavy footfall right outside my door. All these would be proof of life, and there would be a nurse too, who would hold my wrist, counting and nodding, only a silhouette in the dark. As my mother did, she’d hold her finger to her lips, saying shhh, shhh, and, like a child, feverish, safe, I would close my eyes, and sleep. Cortney Davis is a nurse practitioner at a women's health clinic in Danbury, Conn. As a writer, Davis has garnered an NEA Poetry Fellowship and two poetry grants from the Connecticut Commission on the Arts. Her latest poetry collection is Leopold's Maneuvers. Most recently, her essay was showcased on NPR. |
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