Baptism

Michele Bombardier

His hand a fist as he pulls the catheter
from his crotch to above his head,
an arc of movement and mustard yellow urine
dousing me, my clipboard and my intern name-tag,
his head lolls to one side, his eyes closed.
I pull up a chair, lower the bedrails.
He bats at my hand. When he finds it, he quiets,
his hand a vice on mine. We sit like this,
in his wet, a tableau, for maybe ten minutes
before I go to get the nurse.
Nevermind I dry-heaved sobbed in the bathroom.
Nevermind I called my younger brother later,
made him promise to always wear his seatbelt.
He found my hand, I tell you, he quieted,
like someone drowning finds a ring buoy,
holds tight, then swims, carried
by the current, back to shore.