ER #2
This time he knows / how to check in, who to talk to, where to get ice chips to keep her mouth from drying. / He knows to ask about her ketones and hematocrit, / understands acceptable results versus she’ll-be-here-for-a-day-or-two ones. He’s not / afraid of waiting for her room to be readied, to expect delays / because this is not TV. He knows to bring / a book, maybe two, to fend off scanning What Every Parent Needs to Know About Babyproofing / or Ten Tips for Breastfeeding for a second or fourth time. / She will be cared for, he trusts that, but will that be enough / to stop her from crying herself awake? From him needing to quiet / the empty house’s quiet?
Packing
One box of wax earplugs, sleep mask, phone / and phone charger. Two pairs of underwear, drawstring pajama pants she will pull / tight against her thinning waist. A pair of his ankle socks, / white except for gray heels and toes and Hanes stitched in red, / because she always wears his when she’s ill. / Sleeve of tissues to wipe away the sick / at the corners of her mouth. Toothbrush and travel-sized toothpaste, deodorant. / Bag of Starbursts for him to snack on, safe as anything, / since no real food can be brought to her room. / Stack of first-year composition portfolios she must grade, / somehow, before the week ends. / Sweatshirt, memory foam pillow, an emesis basin for the drive. Rosary and palm cross, wooden and smooth, with Christ’s face / etched on a metal coin at its center, crown of thorns on his head and tears / on his cheeks because she still believes / prayer can be her answer.
Michael Levan has work in recent or forthcoming issues of Hobart, Hunger Mountain, Indiana Review, Valparaiso Fiction Review, Radar Poetry, Mid-American Review, and American Literary Review. He is an assistant professor of English at the University of Saint Francis and writes reviews for American Microreviews and Interviews. He lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana, with his wife, Molly, and children, Atticus and Dahlia.