2.
God in conjunction with the rise and fall. God in the warped wood drifting up Chicago river. God with old man walking dog on a Saturday afternoon, early September. God as a nurse pumping air into my child’s lungs, manual, each squeeze of wrist filling up like full balloons at a birthday party or hot air balloons lifting on a cool morning. God blowing my tears down my cheeks one after the other like a drawing of old man wind in a children’s picture book. God calling cell phones of joggers who can’t hear them. God in the breeze off Lake Michigan. God circling out of exhaust pipes on Lake Shore Drive. God’s memory in the skyline. God’s ambition manifest in the heart of architects. God courts the city with heavy heart. God in the white people who never smile at me on the sidewalks. God in the ambulance driver’s eyes as he eyes a college girl, slim in skirt. God with me in the ambulance lending x-ray vision to peer at the real underneath the veneer. He hands me the goggles.
I accept.
God is a two day old infant God is a bronchial tube God is a respirator God is a heartrate declining God is expectations amiss God is freedom from good news God is as He should be God is four pricks in a newborn’s wrist God is the nurse who fumbled the IV God is low glucose levels God is mother’s fear God is forgetting to breathe God is a latex-free glove over a Transfer Team member’s hand God is divided into a triad a triumverate of nurses in the back of the ambulance God is the mother up front with the driver God is siren as background noise God is the leads over the baby’s heart and belly God is the respiratory rate on a screen God is the peaks and valleys of oxygen saturation God is a prenatal yoga instructor’s voice saying Breathe in, breathe out You can think this hurts or you can think I breathe in, I breathe out God is this mantra God is the morning God is happenstance God is everything they said He would be God is climbing through the open window to strain some more tears from her eyes God is the lingering stale smoke on the ambulance driver’s shirt God is a voice over the CB God is a radio dial tuned to 101.1 God is someone else’s fiction God is present God is a pit hollowing out her stomach God is tigers writhing teeth flashing eyes flaring God is the halting of high heels on the sidewalk before hitting the street stepping out of the way of the ambulance of the prepositional phrase of the under beyond between among amidst running mad and florid in expectation of what was but what we’ll never have and what she’s seen and He only knows what’s going on in that baby brain in that intubator in that tiny vein in that blood vessel in that respiratory hand held breathing in and out in time with the steps of the college girls on the pavement summer legs tan in the rhythm of the drums in the next car’s stereo in the wave of the leaves in the breeze and the collapse of a buckle on someone’s leather shoe and the startle of a cat at the bark of the old man’s dog
God is the corner store clerk God is Ecuadorian bananas God is import-export God is global warming God is meteorites God is loving your neighbors & forgetting their names & God is the shrunken belly of a two day no longer pregnant now woman God is the swelling milk ducts God is a baby who won’t drink God is adrenaline that keeps us all running on empty God is an ambulance speeding up the runway ramp of Children’s Memorial with mother and baby in tow God is the midwife who fumbled the birth waiting at the door atop the ramp God is the Holy Three nurses speeding the intubator up the ramp and into the elevator all of us in tow God is all of us unsung and dumb running speechless among his terrible mercy
God in conjunction with the rise and fall. God in the warped wood drifting up Chicago river. God with old man walking dog on a Saturday afternoon, early September. God as a nurse pumping air into my child’s lungs, manual, each squeeze of wrist filling up like full balloons at a birthday party or hot air balloons lifting on a cool morning. God blowing my tears down my cheeks one after the other like a drawing of old man wind in a children’s picture book. God calling cell phones of joggers who can’t hear them. God in the breeze off Lake Michigan. God circling out of exhaust pipes on Lake Shore Drive. God’s memory in the skyline. God’s ambition manifest in the heart of architects. God courts the city with heavy heart. God in the white people who never smile at me on the sidewalks. God in the ambulance driver’s eyes as he eyes a college girl, slim in skirt. God with me in the ambulance lending x-ray vision to peer at the real underneath the veneer. He hands me the goggles.
I accept.
God is a two day old infant God is a bronchial tube God is a respirator God is a heartrate declining God is expectations amiss God is freedom from good news God is as He should be God is four pricks in a newborn’s wrist God is the nurse who fumbled the IV God is low glucose levels God is mother’s fear God is forgetting to breathe God is a latex-free glove over a Transfer Team member’s hand God is divided into a triad a triumverate of nurses in the back of the ambulance God is the mother up front with the driver God is siren as background noise God is the leads over the baby’s heart and belly God is the respiratory rate on a screen God is the peaks and valleys of oxygen saturation God is a prenatal yoga instructor’s voice saying Breathe in, breathe out You can think this hurts or you can think I breathe in, I breathe out God is this mantra God is the morning God is happenstance God is everything they said He would be God is climbing through the open window to strain some more tears from her eyes God is the lingering stale smoke on the ambulance driver’s shirt God is a voice over the CB God is a radio dial tuned to 101.1 God is someone else’s fiction God is present God is a pit hollowing out her stomach God is tigers writhing teeth flashing eyes flaring God is the halting of high heels on the sidewalk before hitting the street stepping out of the way of the ambulance of the prepositional phrase of the under beyond between among amidst running mad and florid in expectation of what was but what we’ll never have and what she’s seen and He only knows what’s going on in that baby brain in that intubator in that tiny vein in that blood vessel in that respiratory hand held breathing in and out in time with the steps of the college girls on the pavement summer legs tan in the rhythm of the drums in the next car’s stereo in the wave of the leaves in the breeze and the collapse of a buckle on someone’s leather shoe and the startle of a cat at the bark of the old man’s dog
God is the corner store clerk God is Ecuadorian bananas God is import-export God is global warming God is meteorites God is loving your neighbors & forgetting their names & God is the shrunken belly of a two day no longer pregnant now woman God is the swelling milk ducts God is a baby who won’t drink God is adrenaline that keeps us all running on empty God is an ambulance speeding up the runway ramp of Children’s Memorial with mother and baby in tow God is the midwife who fumbled the birth waiting at the door atop the ramp God is the Holy Three nurses speeding the intubator up the ramp and into the elevator all of us in tow God is all of us unsung and dumb running speechless among his terrible mercy
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