Me, a teacher of poetry, the idea is insane.
Yet I’m here once a week at the nuthouse. Oops. Hospital.
A lunch conversation with a nurse.
“That old guy, Russell, he seems so gentle,” I say. “So normal.”
Russell writes about hummingbirds.
“It’s either here or prison,” the nurse says.
“Oh,” I say.
Actually I’m not allowed to ask about patients.
But the nurse, now she’s worked up.
“Russell had custody of his granddaughter,” the nurse says.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“The mom died,” the nurse says, “the baby was six months.”
“Oh,” I say.
“To call him ‘*** offender’ sounds too clinical,” the nurse says.
I say nothing.
“He must’ve bought Vaseline by the bucket,” the nurse says.
“Um…” I say.
“He ****** that baby every day,” the nurse says.
“Three hundred and sixty-four days a year,” the nurse says.
“Christmas, she got a holiday,” the nurse says.
“Oh,” I say, and I push my plate away.
“Sorry,” the nurse says, “I ruined your appetite.”
“Not your fault,” I say.
“I hate hummingbirds,” the nurse says. “I hate poetry.”
I say nothing.
“Can a poem be ugly?” the nurse asks.
I reach for a fresh napkin, slide it across the tabletop.
“If a poem could ****,” the nurse says, “I’d write one.”
From my pocket, I hand her a pen.
