Issue 14, December 1997
Scott Ross - Poem

My father's picture hangs on the far wall.
In the end, he was like I am now.  He wears
a wide collar shirt under a three color plaid jacket.
He holds a cigarette like a fifties starlet, his mouth
barely touches the end as he inhales.
He is clowning for the camera.
This is suicide of a different sort.

Two large cans of tomato sauce. 
One pound drained ground beef.
One medium onion, five cloves
crushed garlic. Salt, pepper, oregano,
basil and thyme to taste. Simmered well.
Served hot.  Topped with shredded cheese.
Our last dinner together, pasta with meat sauce.
She is lost to me now, lost at the end
of the country, unaware of me.

Ten years ago I was in a serious car accident,
officially dead for a minute or two  
until a paramedic waded through the metal 
and glass to revive me.  My family thanked
him, I thanked him when I was able.
He saved my life so I could become this.
I can barely remember the details of the accident.

My small window only allows sparse light
to filter through, diminished and sterilized.
I have my books and a reading lamp.
Before, I read only non-fiction, but now I 
study poems and stories about death, seeing
if I recognize myself in the descriptions.

This is what I have smelled of death.
Soap mixed with iodine.  Plastic.
Strawberry milkshakes.  The tar-laced
breath of a hovering nurse.  Chlorine.

Every third day for six months nurses have visited me.  
They smile, but rarely say my name right 
because they try not to look closely at the charts. 
One nurse resembles my daughter, pale blue eyes
against a suntanned face.  With freckles.
We talk about our families, about the weather.
She tells me she would pray to God if it were her.
But if I prayed, I fear my prayer would be
"Why me?" 
To which God might answer, "Why not you?"
Why not me.

Once a week, I am rolled to the park.
I like to watch the old men sitting on the 
benches, ripping peeling paint from iron curves.
They sit and mutter and smooth their pants, grown
shiny and threadbare by the years of sitting.
Birds flock around them, begging for crumbs.

This is what I have seen of death.
Old men muttering with sunken faces.
Starving birds littering concrete.
Tubes, solid lines on monitor displays.
White sheets. A shallow chest.
My father, who hacked until there was
no breath to hack with.
Myself.

I live as an acronym, as initials.
Not all curse words have four letters,
but the important ones do, always.
There is no refuge in the dreams of the dying.
Dying has all the charm of an overcast day.
Life is spooky magic and choices.
A person must stand.