Driving to the hospital,
trees, arching beyond the highway,
still leafless,
branch like bronchioles, alveoli
stripped of flesh,
lungs hung
upside down branching
toward the sky.
One early forsythia, outlandish,
Radiates nuclear yellow.
Showing ID to the masked, gloved volunteer
I passively wait
for my temp to be taken,
to be tempered, to be allowed
to ascend
to another empty lobby
to wait my turn
to lie beneath
the great gray floating ring
machine out of Star Trek,
the tech’s cold, gentle hands
a rare moment of human contact.
Pam Clements’ poetry and nonfiction have appeared in several literary magazines, including Kalliope, The Palo Alto Review, The Baltimore Review, and others. She has published one volume of poetry, Earth Science (Troy Book Makers) and is currently completing a memoir about five years she spent teaching in Charleston, South Carolina.
