Poems by Claire Rubin

Psych Ward – August, 1998
for my son, who has the courage to live

                  If there is on your psaltery
                  O Father of Love, one sound
                  acceptable to his ear,
                  refresh his heart with it
                                    Brahms’ Alto Rhapsody

Dead flowers drooping in dusty vases
rows of empty bookshelves
                  no belts, no shoelaces, no drawstring pants
TV droning sitcoms with canned laughter
no one is laughing here
                  no clocks, no keys, no cameras
greasy meals of cryptic sludge
served on sticky trays no knives
                  no cigarettes, no cellphones
patients slipper-slap down the halls
circling and circling, wearing
                  white gowns like ghosts
                  in silted silence

I beg the staff to let me take him to Starbucks
                  just for one hour, please
ECT scheduled early the next morning
the last card in a deck of desperation
                  electric currents buzzing his brain
                  scrambling synapses, inducing seizures
causing memory loss, confusion, sore muscles,
                  nausea, relentless fatigue

We sip triple shots of espresso
                  neither of us touch the tuna sandwiches
I see the exhaustion in his eyes, blue like mine
he touches my hand, “I’m OK, Mom”
                  I head for the bathroom, hiding my tears
                  when I come back, he is gone
I see stairs down to the train tracks
O Father of Love
                  let this be one day
                  he doesn’t want to die

Dotty and Driftless

when I am older than old, whittled by weather and want
slumped in a wheelchair by the window or drowsing
on the couch under a heap of blankets, let me hear
the voices of children on the playground
innocent voices that waft me
on my way to whatever
is next, a shaft of light
a whispered breath
floating on wings
of wonder