Yamington
 

At half-past three, I enter the cafeteria

 with the quick chop of teacher steps.

 The swollen whir of students’ voices grows

 and then ebbs as they spill out into the grey yard.

 

 Still, in the corner, Yamington sits like a clay pigeon.

 As his teachers introduce me.

 “He’s an idiot” “An Imbecile”

 A circus child in a silver chair.

They do not look at his face when they speak of him.

 He has built a pyramid of bright, orange tangerines.
 

Outside, the storm that’s been threatening all day

 throws itself against the windowpanes.

The other teachers leave. I sit down.

 Yamington points at his yellow shirt,

 his arms waving, buttering the whole,

 pale, painted room in the light of his extreme delight.

 “Yellow” he says with a toothy smile, as if it’s a secret

 and I sit down to this new color,

 startled by the texture of it.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 
 

Why I Work in Hospitals

 

 How the hospital smothers things—you said

 you could not work there—too much death—I said,

outside, it’s everywhere, as uncontained

as lightning. Twice this week already I

was almost hit: the tongue of air that slipped

my rubber legs getting off the subway

on Wednesday—the open wound of water

 that spills from the electric light, steady

as a deadly waterfall. My life has

 never been so precious as it is now.

 I tried to tell you how those corridors

 saved me. When you come so close to death that

you believe it’s yours—it’s difficult to

let go—hospitals bleach that want away.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~