the call

"The modes of vibration associated
with resonance in extended objects
have characteristic patterns called standing waves;
these are characterized by nodal positions -
points of no displacement."
-- true physics fact

the hospital is shaped like a flower,
and my bed is tucked away in one petal.
i'm only one person. i'm only here for one night.
i'm on call, and i lie down on my bed.
i'm on call and i pray, and i call on somebody,
some spirit i know. she's actual size,
but she seems much bigger to me.
the beads are clear glass and faceted,
one by one a prayer, and so.
the main thing is,
i don't want anyone to die tonight.



like a standing wave she moves through the halls.
she passes through the ICU nurses
who sit in the near-dark, in a row, watching the monitors.
they talk quietly to each other, shoulder to shoulder,
watching. into the darkened glass rooms,
she washes like a wave across the damp brow
of the woman with AIDS, over the swollen belly
of the man with cirrhosis. her breath

is the sigh of mechanical ventilators;
the hearts keep beating. she flows into the orthopedic unit,
all those red-hot sawn-up hips and knees, those shiny metal
torture devices, and her presence fills the air,
anesthetizes and sedates; patients
sleep without stirring.

like a standing wave, she moves through labor and delivery,
where sleepy nurses sit side by side, watching the monitors,
and pregnant ladies, numb from the waist down,
doze in their dark rooms
until morning. she passes like a wave through the NICU
with its plexiglass boxes of tiny red babies
covered with soft blankets, ventilators and feeding pumps
purring and ticking away in the dark. she washes over
the furrowed brows of the nurses, their tired eyes. she

cools them. she flows
through the medical units one by one,
filling the hallways with deep good air.
the demented and delerious
snore delicately. the bleeding stop bleeding
and start dreaming. blood sugars

and temperatures gently rise and fall,
bladders and bellies gently fill and accomodate;
everybody sleeps. even the nervous hospitalists
sleep quietly, wrapped in their thin blankets.
she fills the halls with a thin cool clarity,

an air of slow, and quiet, and calm, and pain-free.
in the emergency room, no emergencies; a sudoku book
lies open on a table; the coffeepot cools; relaxed
security guards sit around joking
with sweet-faced nurses;
she fills the hospital.
in the basement,

in the lab, the sleepy tech
smiles at an inconsequential website.
the cultures bloom. the bottles rest in orderly rows.
the phone is quiet. she fills the hospital

and the tired patients sleep.
the hallways are clean and empty and dim.
she fills the hospital.
nobody dies.