Joan Glass
Into the night
the ambulance
blasts its sirens,
blocking
your cries.
You finally
fall asleep
in the back,
your pale body
wrapped
too quickly
in colorless
blankets.
Halfway there,
the EMTs
muffle a laugh,
a private joke
to break up
their long hours.
The driver drinks
Dunkin Donuts
and does not
speak to me.
They do this
every day.
But out
in the world
there are golden
leaves that
will scatter
without you.
Silent snowdrifts
will shift
and shrink.
Somewhere,
another child
is born into
the darkness.
Her mother
screams
in agony.
–
Joan Glass writes and works on the Connecticut coast. Her poetry has been published in Harpweaver, Conspire, Precipice, Thunder Sandwich, and the Smith College Alumnae Quarterly.
