Vox Populi
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Greg Lobas: Her Animal Self
hit the brakes so hard
it almost sent her back in time.
A minute would do.
Even a few seconds, just before
the van rocketed over the rise,
launched into her sub-compact like a Scud missile.
Now she is a rabbit in a trap, straining
against dash, frame, steering column
crumpled around her, pinning
her, knuckling her like a fist.
Spray of coolant, oil, gasoline, vapors
in the night, smashed engine’s evening catharsis,
and everywhere the fire truck’s idle growl.
Voices shout over jaws-of-life roar.
Bending metal. Generator flood lights.
By the time we pry her loose she is ready
to be gentled. In the shelter of Squad 1
I kneel next to her, take her fingers
bend them down slightly, almost
as if I am about to kiss her hand.
She curls her fingers around mine,
squeezes, looks hopeful.
She thinks I’m offering comfort,
but I am only stabilizing the dorsal veins
of her hand in order to start an IV,
and I wonder if she is embarrassed
when I break free of her grasp, adjust
the drip rate, check her vitals.
She doesn’t know how badly she is hurt.
Can’t see the splinted leg, can’t feel it yet.
At the ER nurses rip our splint away, raptors diving in.
A blaze of merciless trauma room lighting
makes everything artlessly naked. She sees now
that frilly dresses and dancing are the smoke
of memories. Hanging by a shred of flesh
next to the silky, glistening club of her ankle joint,
is a dangling puppet of a foot without the strings.
She screams and screams,
her animal-self
waving her crazy leg
crazily in the air.
Her panic boils over
spilling onto everyone in the room
like a food blender without a lid.
Nurses lunge, miss,
lunge again.
Still she screams.
Still she waves,
while I stand off to the side
wishing I had held her hand.
Copyright 2022 Greg Lobas
Greg Lobas worked as a career firefighter and paramedic for thirty years, attaining the rank of captain. He lives with his wife Meg and their dog Sophie in the foothills of western North Carolina. His full-length poetry collection Left of Center is the winner of the 2022 Dogfish Head Prize.
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I received an amended copy but haven’t read it because the one I received affected me so strongly. I was a premedical advisor for 20 years. I still keep in touch with m as my of my students who went into many medical fields. I sent it out to them
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Thanks, Barbara. I didn’t know you were a premedical advisor.
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This old bat has been a lot of things. Still keep in touch with elementary school students I taught in late 60s early seventies. Also did marketing research for Carter Harley Hale Dept Stores ( they might still be around if they had listernedvyo me about customer service), tech writer for Hughes Aircraft, part owner of Huntington computing during the Apple ll wonder years, director of a program to get underserved. Students into PhD programs ( got to talk to Maya Angelou to get permission to use “still I rise” on our logo for McNair scholars program, and oh I love my students who hsve become medical professionals, some have become first responder, some docs, vets, nurses, on and on. Although I always wrote poetry for myself, I have only recently in my 60s snd 70s sent it out ( mostly it is still just for me)
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Amazing!
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This one caught and held me. The picture is clear. The external and internal view. The end, oh the end.
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Yes, and the poem is made more powerful, at least for me, knowing that Greg was first responder for 30 years.
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Where is the content? This sort of failure is happening regularly.
Michael Frank
Sent from my iPhone
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I apologize for the technical glitch which causes a blank page in the email. You can access the content by clicking on the title of the email and you will go directly to the poem.
The problem is caused by a malfunction of the WordPress platform, and I’ve been assured that the problem is being addressed and will be solved.
Michael Simms, editor of Vox Populi.
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Thank you, Michael.
Sent from my iPhone
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I just tap on the title snd it comes up
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Powerful!
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