The Bombing of Hospitals
There was a time when they were kept far
Away from the front. Unafraid for their lives,
The nurses moved calmly through the wards
Carrying trays of shrapnel stewed in blood.
Days were slow. Letters came to say that,
Elsewhere, babies were being born, novels
Being published, plays being produced.
The letters, which had already been opened
By the time they reached the men they were
Addressed to, said, between the lines, that
There was a world yet untouched by the war,
A world they would be returning to once
They heeled. Some of the letters contained
News from the front, far enough away to have
To be borne in the form of language,
Not as light and noise, and as the news
Of the latest battle was read out loud,
The war seemed like a nightmare they had
Had in common, and had woken from
Together, all at once.
There was time for flirtations to flare between
Nurses and patients, a few affairs. Smoking
Between amputations, the surgeons laughed
Under the trees, their bloody shirtsleeves
Rolled up, while in the garden convalescents
Hobbled about on crutches, played croquet,
Fell asleep in wheelchairs, apple blossoms
Fallen into their hair. Their only fear was that
Gangrene would set in, that they would be
The next to turn quiet and toward the wall.
They feared flies and bedsores, bad news
From home, the sudden appearance of a friend
Who’d been gravely-wounded. But the hospital
Itself, built of brick or wood, or composed
Of rows of linen tents pitched in a field
In a rush, was understood by all to be protected
By the presence of the wounded themselves,
Who knew no new harm could come to them,
Only the old harm find a firmer hold,
And pull them under.
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I like this very much. Was surprised to see it’s a prose poem when I went to the site. In email it shows as wrapping lines for some reason.
(Please note “healed” not “heeled.”)