Tracheotomy

The terrible thing thing was his coughing, as his throat

tried to expel the machinery of its breathing hole: Foam

erupted, tinged with pink.

—Donald Hall on James Wright’s last days

Obviously, I understand why he put it that way—

it must be disgusting to see

a loved one’s body turning itself out

like that, but not to me—

it’s my small son’s proud survival

against a body not built

to work, or built then irreversibly

broken, irreversible as our guilt, before

he could ever use it.

Life, I’ve learned, can cling

to a certain amount of plastic,

and love is the things I do over

and over again—cleaning excess

secretions from my son’s

lungs with a ten-inch catheter,

pouring liquid food down the tube

to his guts, cuing up the same

damn movie, holding his hand, soft

as tracing paper, and laughing

with him at the jokes I think

he makes. I was made

to be good like this, a father

before I was done being my father’s

son. Lord, or reader, we have

suffered, and are ever suffering,

but it is not now of sadness

or pity I sing.