THREE POEMS by RC DEWINTER
Couleur de Rose
Swimming lazily, fins waving slowly in the murky deep,
the fish lives its life—nothing entirely clear
but that it’s meant to survive.
Occasionally a shaft of sunlight pierces its watery world
but only when it cruises near the surface of the sea in pursuit of a meal.
But today, after snatching greedily at some unsuspecting prey,
the fish feels a sudden sharp sting, not entirely unpleasant,
and finds itself being propelled upward at a speed unimaginable
in its daily peregrinations.
I’m flying, I’m flying to the light! thinks the fish,
suddenly aware there’s more to existence than fluid horizons.
An inexplicable fierce beauty electrifies every scale, gills convulse
with primitive ecstasy, until, at last—its soul congealing—
it lies hooked and helpless on a bed of ice.
installing cloistered heart 9.3
knowing it was vital i read the manual
that came with the kit // which i // (being more of a
show me than tell me learner was nervous about and hated doing) //
read three times before i felt ready to proceed //
now // reaching deep into my chest // i pull out my heart //
it sits softly in my palm // fragile but whole //
pulsing a soft waltz in the usual three-quarter time //
as with my other hand i reach for the soft faux-leather pouch //
also included with the kit // that will hold my disaffected heart //
i need to be brick // i need to be steel // or some other
impenetrable substance // so i can keep breathing
until the scythe swings for me // and takes me to whatever //
if anything // comes after it’s all over // this unkind life
that stole every bit of love and happiness i too briefly owned //
and now // picking up a sheet of specially-treated gauze
i wrap my heart gently but firmly // then again and again //
until i can’t feel it beating // and // tucking my cloistered heart
into the pouch i tape it shut and slide it into place //
attaching the wires // also included with the kit
// that will pick up the wifi to keep my heart beating but not feeling //
grateful for the technology that makes it all possible //
The Nurse’s Tale
Now that I am old and very near the end—
with as many years of watching people die
as I have behind me I know the signs—
I want to go wherever it is I'm going
with a clean slate.
I seek not forgiveness but clarity.
The time for honesty has come.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Let me start again.
I am Mary Elizabeth McKinnon, née Carey.
Born in Chicago in 1925,
effectively a Depression baby
with all the baggage that implies.
I grew up poor in a house
crowded with too many children
and never enough money.
I was never expected to amount to much,
and the fact that I was able
to go to nursing school is a testament
to my unwillingness to be nothing
but a brood mare harnessed for life to
some hardfisted factory hand.
Back then girls without money
and influential friends didn't grow up
to be lawyers or doctors
or enter any of the other professions
open to women today.
The only degree most of the girls I knew
achieved was the MRS.
preceding a new last name.
If they did work before marriage
they passed the time until that happy day
in dreary offices or slinging hash in two-bit diners.
The big white collar occupations
for women back then were teaching and nursing.
I was never drawn to teaching.
The thought of wrangling a classroom
of unruly children and then
spending my hours away from school
correcting papers and drawing up lessons
was almost as bad as the thought of marrying Mickey Dailey—
a smart-alecky oaf forever mooning after me—
a few months after graduating high school.
I decided to pursue nursing.
I wanted to make sure
I could always pay my own way
without being beholden to some man
for every dollar I spent.
I worked after school and every summer,
babysitting and cleaning houses,
and saved every cent I could.
My mother sneered at what she called
my Florence Nightingale Fund
but I think she was jealous,
because she was trapped
and if I became a nurse I wouldn't be.
By the time I finished high school
I'd managed to save a good bit.
Turns out I didn't have to worry about
making up any shortfall in funds.
World War II, a disaster for so many,
was a godsend for me.
The government poured millions of dollars
into all kinds of training,
wooing with patriotism and money
young women who wanted to be nurses.
I was accepted into the Cadet Nursing Program
and never looked back.
Being a nurse wasn't the least bit glamorous
but I didn't care. I was independent.
And I must admit I enjoyed the attentions
of more than a few young doctors.
As I grew older and a little more settled
and thought it might be nice to be married,
I knew enough about young doctors
not to want to marry one of them.
No, I married Jim McKinnon,
a steady, sober insurance underwriter.
I can't say he was ever exciting
but we got along well
and agreed on most things.
I guess I wasn't very exciting either,
at least not by the time we met.
Turns out I couldn't have children,
so for fifty-seven years it was just the two of us.
Then one day Jim keeled over,
quietly just as he did everything,
one morning as he bent down
to get the Sunday paper off the porch.
But enough about the ordinary part of my life.
What I really want to talk about
is how I killed people.
It was never discussed and never prosecuted
but it happened all the time.
And it wasn't just where I worked.
Today there's a lot of hoo-ha
and procedural legalities
about withholding treatment,
living wills and such,
but way back when
putting the terminally ill and suffering
out of their misery was common enough.
Quiet injections of barbiturates
and muscle relaxers sent many a soul
on its final journey,
and those of us who participated
believed we were performing acts of mercy.
We nurses never decided anyone's fate,
we merely carried out doctors' orders
under their immediate supervision.
And now that I am one of those
terminally ill, suffering individuals,
I wish things today were the same
as they were back then—
quiet, under the rug, behind the curtain,
but swift and sure and final.
But now in order to leave this life of one's own free will
there's such a mountain of bureaucracy.
I've been filling out forms
and talking with counselors for weeks,
and still I won't be quietly put to sleep.
No, I'll have to lie here pumped full of painkillers
to keep me sedated until this damn disease
finally eats away at enough of me
to finish me off.
It can't happen soon enough.
Well, that's about it, really.
Now that I've said what I wanted to say
and everything's in as good an order
as I can leave it.
RC deWinter’s poetry is widely anthologized, notably in “New York City Haiku” (NY Times, 2/2017), “easing the edges: a collection of everyday miracles,” (Patrick Heath Public Library of Boerne, 11/2021) “The Connecticut Shakespeare Festival Anthology” (River Bend Bookshop Press, 12/2021). In print: 2River, Event, Gargoyle Magazine, the minnesota review, Night Picnic Journal, Plainsongs, Prairie Schooner, Southword, The Ogham Stone, Twelve Mile Review, York Literary Review, and many others. Appears in numerous online literary journals.