Approaching the hospital, she calls in the spirits of the
of science and surfaces and accurate measurement.
Early light shredding the sky behind the tower
reminds her of all the dawns to come: false dawns,
divine sparks, hot heads and hot flushes, tempers inflamed
and snap decisions. For these many fires, she calls in
the spirits of the east, takes deep breaths in the car park,
prepares for the piped-about air inside, she calls in
the spirits of the north, the sylphs of oxygen and nitrous
praying that she might be giddy and feel no pain
as they suck out ten of her moons and add them in a
to that thousand eyed demon, the copius squiggle of
She chooses a white seat in the waiting room near a
Her husband will arrive soon and then it will all begin.
Love Shack is on the radio and she thinks of the room
where he will produce the goods, its clamminess.
All that remain are the spirits of the south, which are
and fruiting and endings, according to her book
on how to be shaman.
So, entering the room, she calls them in too,
and just to be sure, she calls in again the spirits of the
of big data and small miracles,
of brisk nurses striding the lino like wolf-women.
Out the window, herb robert is taking hold and pennywort
has snuck into some wallcracks. Is that three-cornered
She’ll pick some once all this is over.