White Hospital

In the dream,
Dr. Beetlebrow has a different name
And he is my doctor and everyone speaks in
Ridiculous German Accents
Out of a Marx Brothers movie
Or like Dr. Ruth.

Beetlebrow’s first name is not Sam
His last name may begin with R
He wears a white hat,
Like Gilligan.

We patients or inmates are forced to complete tedious forms
That never end. I struggle to recall Dr. B’s names
And how to spell them.
And what the endless code numbers and letters might be.
I struggle to write on dotted lines neatly and to fill the mazelike
Pages and pages of little boxes: information must be memorized, you
Do not look it up.

I am worried about my urethra.
All my life, I never drank much water,
Afraid I’d exhaust my urethra. Another thing:
I am having trouble swallowing or breathing while drinking
I am having trouble breathing deep enough to oxygenate my brain.

On grassy slopes in rural Virginia,
Maybe on a Civil War battlefield,
Are the white buildings.
We pace the shiny hospital halls,
Some of us in wheel chairs.
The ceilings and windows are tall.
The wobbly ceiling fans are stuck:
They rotate their long white blades like canoe paddles
But they never break free, they never sail away
Down the hall and out the window.

At a table, I take the papers that hang
From a bulldog clip on the wall above me.
I write up the many symptoms of my disease,
Called 3D: Disabling Despair Disease.
They make you do the forms often
To define the height, weight and shoe size
Of your “trouble” -- for them, for you.
Compliance gets you permission
To log in & out, to move on
Or simply move and breathe,
After your time of not breathing.

We sleep on the floor.
The hospital beds are blue nylon sleeping bags
In the cold hallway. I feel too boney,
In the sleeping bag, I can’t sleep
Or settle. My bones jangle.
I do not rest.

I drag my sleeping bag onto a terrace in moonlight,
Or maybe late afternoon light, pushing through glass doors,
To the colorful meadow peppered in white tents where
Women in white bend to resting or animated or
Struggling patients, all in white in the slopes
Of green grass, a sprawl.

I join a group of women, settle into
The crowd, as one of us -- maybe Clara Barton
Or the ghost of Clara Barton -- speaks and speaks,
A bird in a bodice with a big voice,
She stands not very tall among us, lifts her arms,
Pointing: there are “no happy endings” she says, in her pep talk.
Strangely, everyone is clapping and exchanging glances, little smiles.

I am elated because Clara says we can weather every storm,
We can ride our roller coasters without end if we dare, if we are alive.
If we are alive, refuse to fall or oversleep, we can co-habit
With our reliable, resident demons. Reliably, shadows will
Cover the earth but we’ll light up the lanterns,
Break a path into the gloom, find our way to the safe haven.
We won’t be stuck, we won’t be consumed.
There will be flickers of peace,
Of equilibrium for us, forever.

In the field kitchen,
Coffee is brewing, chickens are roasting, bread is baking.
A metal spoon scrapes a metal pot.
Soap is in the air and the sound of a squeaky tap,
Cold water violently rushes from a faucet
Into a battered wash tub.