The air is iron-rich like good potting soil
here, where the sun won’t ever reach, only
the exam light beam boring down
on the life raft of a gurney, the patient
barely afloat at its center. The trauma bay

now so loud and full, buzzing and fierce, 
blue-gloved hands in constant motion,
orders thrown across the patient’s body:
give an amp of bicarb and push harder
and we need more gauze and does anyone
feel a pulse. But the defibrillator’s squeal 

before a shock cuts through the noise. And no, 
their bodies don’t leap from the bed 
like they do in the movies but sometimes you’ll see
their fingers curl inward like they’re grasping 
at something. This time, his hands, wide-knuckled
and broad like my father’s, splay open in mercy.

Now, the raft is empty, now I keep my own hands
busy sweeping up broken ampule necks, gutted
plastic packages, what’s left of his Levi jeans, 
knees worn, a ring of brass keys still hooked 
to his belt loop, limp. I scrub the floor clean,
 
tuck the drawers tightly closed, line up my needles 
and syringes, run water over the cracked steeples 
of my fingers, wash up to my elbows—ready.