August, 1953

A nurse gathers up the afterbirth. My mother
    *
had been howling but now could sleep.
    *
By this time I am gone—also gathered up
    *
& wheeled out. Above my jaundiced face the nurses hover.
    *
Outside, a scab commands a city bus. The picketers battle cops
    *
& ten thousand Soviet conscripts in goggles
    *
kneel & cover their eyes. Mushroom cloud above the Gobi,
    *
& slithering toward Stalin's brain, the blood clot
    *
takes its time. Ethel Rosenberg has rocketed
    *
to the afterlife, her hair shooting flame. The afterbirth
    *
is sloshing in a pail, steadied by an orderly who curses
    *
when the elevator doors stay shut: I am soul & body & medical waste
    *
foaming to the sewers of St. Paul. I am not yet aware
    *
of gratitude or shame.
                                I do know the light is everywhere.