In Little Bay, Australia: the injured, the isolated,
the highly infectious, and now, you, Dear Reader,
unrolling the bandages, passing the scalpel,
wiping the brows, stacking the bedpans,
pushing the wooden wheelchair down the long hall
toward the next century’s death and disease,
which is today, Memorial Weekend, 2020,
the museum’s smiling mannequins unable to say
which way to turn to escape the vast array
of scales, the showcased skeletons, the inevitable
interaction with grief, and what the typed captions
will read after next decade’s renovations make room
for this year’s tallies of loss and sorrow. Go now
out the unlocked side door and onto the wide front porch.
The ocean is still there: crashing or cleansing? Listen.
Decide whether or not to breathe.
—-
Previously published in The San Diego Reader (July 2020) and Global Poemic (24 Aug, 2020)
Prince Henry Hospital Nursing and Medical Museum
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