I read this article today about how a hospital in Texas is deciding to handle rising numbers of Covid patients.
The entire article is alarming, but one thing struck me–thousands of miles away?
The entire state of Texas is not thousands of miles across from end to end any way you look at it.
While there are far-reaching and devastating consequences for everyone involved when people in need of care are summarily left to die and refused care,
I am also not sure how I feel about being told that there is not one place in Texas that will take very sick patients, the fragile and the dying.
Maybe we need to talk about that.
I might as well be a canine companion
In this ritual of carefulness
Wash the shoes, spray them with bleach, stuff the scrubs into the drum of the machine, always use extra detergent
Then dry on the line
In this intense, summer light
I think just to mess with me, the weather app will place one small storm cloud on the far horizon of days. I tell myself, the light is moving away, the days grow short, the heat will break, these are just shoes in a messy front hallway, seemingly lost and matchless, discardable, but
Make no sudden moves
Until the rains come
The metal doors are the only punctuation Between Caution and Horses going south as the great, white wings are bourn up the coast
Why are the giants stilled? The wind is alive and there are no Quixotic figures on the horizon
We sing sad love songs
As the wind unfurls ribbons of smoke from engulfing flames
We go to the sea
What if you believed?
That the trees were all sentient beings
And their falling leaves were thirst-stricken em•is•ar•ies?
Curling boats cupped and lovely
Or spare, lacy things let go before they should
The rippling surface of sunlit, unexpected
I bought a boat in the hill country, she says to herself,
In this place where the Sky always becomes an ocean
We have lost so much, but I will have this beat-up John boat, recompense for years ago when I
Told you, leave your anger and walk home from here
As though we all don’t have to do that
As though there is any other way for stone-cold prodigals to
6 minutes to Ballinger, Texas I missed you. Not possessing the ability to stop all the clocks, I watched windmills instead, recording the flat, hot, windy stretch of road while the Catholic radio station came in so clear with words of uneven comfort. I picture you a Ghibli bride, birdcage veil like Jackie Kennedy, always dainty, smallest, sweetest bouquet of flowers held between your front two paws as you proceed toward our mutual Savior, unswerving in his gaze.
I don’t own a gun but I am grateful the barefoot neighbor in Sutherland Springs did.
Every time we face the devastation of a mass shooting in this country I want to say things like:
We cannot monetize an entertainment culture of violence and not expect it to sway the unhinged.
If we want “better” gun laws we have to enforce the ones we already have.
Andhow many of us know there will be a fatal gap between when 911 is dialed and when help arises?
Without civil accountability in public safety
There is no safety at all.
his button-down shirt matched the color of his gun and his ten-gallon hat matched his jeans as he brandished his weapon with bravado in the the store-of-lost-things on the corner of the city named for the patron saint of them, poor Native Americans, at some point the irony of namesakes and saints’ days and lost things must have haunted them the way it haunts me as the Nissan with the cat inside next to the bustling night school faces its own lost place on the street named for flowers where a brown bottle will spread its broken pieces like water pooled on the edge of the sidewalk, so close to art, so close to lost on the very edge of the world