the tube
September, 1974, five weeks old
deep in the hospital
an x-ray room
bone-cold
the intern straps
my tiny son
stripped to his diaper
into a plastic tube,
velcros it tight
around his chest
his skinny arms
forced high—
his screaming begins
leave now, I’m told
forty minutes alone
on a bench in the hall,
skewered
by his wailing, his howls
that pierced the door
I shiver, tears streaming—
I didn’t keep him safe
a revelation of mothering
I need to protect him
from doctors
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 
Amrita, your poem tore my heart out. I’m so sorry for your pain. and his. Love you, Patrice
WordWranglingWoman Sent from my iPad
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It’s interesting, Patrice, how writing these poems is harder than writing the memoir. I think it’s because they are so very spare.
I love when you comment, thank you!
Love,
Amrita
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I miss you and love to see your writing. I’m working on the last chapters of the sequel. It’s a struggle.
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You can do it! And if you hire Laura, after her work, I’d be willing to lay it out for you. I miss you, too, Patrice.
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