Apr 19, 2010

Passage, J.Glass

By Joan Glass

All the way there the ambulance
blasts its sirens, blocking your cries.

You fall asleep, scrunched up
in the back, exhausted,
your tiny, pale body wrapped
too quickly in colorless blankets.

Halfway there, the EMTs
laugh quietly, a private joke
to break up the long hours.

The driver drinks Dunkin Donuts
and does not speak to me at all.
They do this every day.

But out in the world
there are piles of leaves
that will scatter without you.

Silent snowdrifts
will shift and shrink.

Another baby is born into the world.
Her mother screams in agony.