There’s a certain smell of soap that makes me cringe.
The sharp edge of antiseptic
That baptized our hands as we went in and out of the room on B6/6.
It’s the smell of long nights when I fought against the drone of the beeping machines
That kept us awake inside our nightmare.
I couldn’t make you better
I couldn’t give you relief
But what killed me? I couldn’t even give you a good night’s sleep.
As I raged against protocol, I felt myself small and powerless--
I saw the truth--
And the truth scared me.
On B6/6, the machines could not be silenced, but I was silent
As I lay on the fold-out bed
So angry I thought I’d die
Raging and raging and small and powerless and scared.

I took a walk by the river today under the chilly gray clouds
That promise an end to long summer days in the yard
Reading and drinking beer and trying not to think about how
Small and powerless and scared I was.
Then, the sun broke through the clouds.
I stopped as it lay a gentle hand on my face,
Shining on the same cheek that lay raging against the hospital pillow,
Touching with its golden clarity all the crooked lines that have sewn themselves into my heart
and saying,
Look, it will be okay.
Then the clouds closed and the warmth went away.
I’ve heard that time heals
But I still cringe at a certain smell of soap.