DOA
by
L. Ralph Pennel
We arrive cold.
One nurse remarks on the blueness of our skin. Like those icebergs, he says, then lowers the sheet back over our heads. The sheets are soaked through. Red. They stick to our bodies. The emergency room doctors stand in silence amid the cries of heart monitors; the slice of privacy curtain rings over metal bars.
We lie on our beds in a row. Our silence is vast. Our stillness unfulfilled. TVs can be heard each time the ER doors open.
We haven’t been here long, and already the phones are ringing. I’m looking for my son/daughter; I was told they’d be here.
Nothing happens until we are moved. We need beds, is echoed around the room.
We stare at lights, crash carts, the blurring of time.
Hours ago, we were at lunch. We brought Fritos. They spilled when we opened them, Fritos falling to the table, our laps, the floor. We ate the ones from our laps like we meant this all along.
We belched the “Pledge of Allegiance” after gulping our sodas, hands over our hearts, backs straight, chins up, One Nation Under God. Then returned to pretending our carrot sticks were bombs exploding over half-eaten plums.
We poked holes in Capri Suns with orange and red straws. We twisted Oreos, ate the filling.
We hit the lights like we had been told. We tried not to breathe.
Last fall, we sent letters to families in Ukraine. Signed; with love. The leaves had already turned. Red, purple, yellow. They crumpled underfoot. We kicked them in the air. Stuffed them in our shirts like the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz.
We put the letters in the mailbox while the teacher held the lid. We used real stamps with flowers and American flags. They’re forever stamps, she told us, as we placed them neatly in the corners, envelopes stained and wrinkled by our hands.
We will hear back soon, she told us. We believed it would come true.
Yesterday we learned past participles, rode scooters backward across the gym floor, gripping the sides, hoping not to pinch our fingers. We made Easter and Solstice cards from construction paper. We used glitter and glue sticks. Some are still in our mother’s purses.
A week ago, at recess, we played this game, took turns being the one. Finger out, thumb up, eye trained. Some of us cried. Didn’t want our turn.
Aimed as we wiped our faces with the backs of our hands, dust painting our cheeks, our foreheads, coating our lips, the roofs of our mouths.
We are the arrived.
One light in the middle of the ER flickers. Everyone looks up. Waits. Picks up where they left off. Hands poised, ears cocked, feet trained. Which is to say, nothing happened.
We are veiled and unveiled.
Faces look down at us. They shake their heads, move on.
We are veiled and unveiled.
We are veiled and unveiled.
Which is to say, nothing can be done.
One nurse remarks on the blueness of our skin. Like those icebergs, he says, then lowers the sheet back over our heads. The sheets are soaked through. Red. They stick to our bodies. The emergency room doctors stand in silence amid the cries of heart monitors; the slice of privacy curtain rings over metal bars.
We lie on our beds in a row. Our silence is vast. Our stillness unfulfilled. TVs can be heard each time the ER doors open.
We haven’t been here long, and already the phones are ringing. I’m looking for my son/daughter; I was told they’d be here.
Nothing happens until we are moved. We need beds, is echoed around the room.
We stare at lights, crash carts, the blurring of time.
Hours ago, we were at lunch. We brought Fritos. They spilled when we opened them, Fritos falling to the table, our laps, the floor. We ate the ones from our laps like we meant this all along.
We belched the “Pledge of Allegiance” after gulping our sodas, hands over our hearts, backs straight, chins up, One Nation Under God. Then returned to pretending our carrot sticks were bombs exploding over half-eaten plums.
We poked holes in Capri Suns with orange and red straws. We twisted Oreos, ate the filling.
We hit the lights like we had been told. We tried not to breathe.
Last fall, we sent letters to families in Ukraine. Signed; with love. The leaves had already turned. Red, purple, yellow. They crumpled underfoot. We kicked them in the air. Stuffed them in our shirts like the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz.
We put the letters in the mailbox while the teacher held the lid. We used real stamps with flowers and American flags. They’re forever stamps, she told us, as we placed them neatly in the corners, envelopes stained and wrinkled by our hands.
We will hear back soon, she told us. We believed it would come true.
Yesterday we learned past participles, rode scooters backward across the gym floor, gripping the sides, hoping not to pinch our fingers. We made Easter and Solstice cards from construction paper. We used glitter and glue sticks. Some are still in our mother’s purses.
A week ago, at recess, we played this game, took turns being the one. Finger out, thumb up, eye trained. Some of us cried. Didn’t want our turn.
Aimed as we wiped our faces with the backs of our hands, dust painting our cheeks, our foreheads, coating our lips, the roofs of our mouths.
We are the arrived.
One light in the middle of the ER flickers. Everyone looks up. Waits. Picks up where they left off. Hands poised, ears cocked, feet trained. Which is to say, nothing happened.
We are veiled and unveiled.
Faces look down at us. They shake their heads, move on.
We are veiled and unveiled.
We are veiled and unveiled.
Which is to say, nothing can be done.
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