Poems by Claud Reich
TO A FRIEND
UPON HIS CYTOMEGALOVIRUS
AND PRAISING THE CATHETER
NOW PERMANENTLY WITHIN HIS ARM
For Mark
The pilot's voice assures me
Hoover Dam's beneath us
though hidden by clouds.
Moisture obscures the ground;
I know there's land,
but cannot watch
to chart its drift.
I have always grown nervous
when my eyes
cannot track the EXIT sign.
I am suspended over Vegas
fearing for you.
That morning, your gloves go first.
Coffee settling in your midriff, you walk
and they stumble, slip
from your pocket, drop
to the sidewalk; some homeless man
pounces upon them.
Your rage and languor
flare and smolder. You tot up
long pages of losses -- small,
larger -- and toss the lot.
You are walking
into unlisted areas, spots
the map no longer covers,
wavelengths for which the eye
hasn't octaves enough.
You shrug, and board the bus.
The needle slides
awkward as a condom
into the crook of your arm.
They thread the catheter
through it, teasing the needle
so the plastic twine
snakes up your vein.
This will be your companion --
the birthmark, the watch
and fob, the fetish
that is with you always.
They will infuse you with potions,
unpatented enzymes, eye of newt
every day now -- liquid trickling
as through a transparent model's
visible, synthetic veins.
The audience watches
this peristalsis, your heart
as it fills and drains.
Blood jets; the pregnant nurse
clamps a pad on your arm, hollers
for help, her composure splitting
like thrice-dyed hair.
The sick child on your left
turns ashen, begs pardon, departs
for the other end of the lab.
You are in shock, as serene
as you ever get. You say
buoyancy is simple -- add valium
for lift, and for ballast
your 'scary fag blood'
spraypainting the walls.
You went ballistic, you said,
at the thin sunset end of a long Friday
on the harridan across the hall.
She talked & watched and talked & watched
and kept yammering at you; you spun
around, hammered at the elevator,
flared like tinder
and shrieked her away from you.
The alkies in the lobby, startled,
lifted their eyebrows, their 40 ounces,
and settled back like roosting birds.
We used to smoke
voraciously, ranting all night,
whole paragraphs
jetting through the haze between us.
You were gazing toward Alcatraz,
you said, when you noticed
whorls shaping the air.
Flying over Lockerbie, I'm sure
they were staring out the windows.
I've always heard
the last thing you see
is clouds.
© Claud Reich, 1996
Two more of my poems.
Sunday in the Park
Watching You Dream
I am, on occasion, a writer. My hobbies include
regency romances, strong sedatives, and brooding. I work as a legal
secretary, and recluse myself in San Francisco.
Valley of Saying Home Page
Poems and page © Claud Reich, 1996
Page layout and design by Scott Reid Serkes.