June 8: My Sister Again, "Ives" Dip, Poet of the Week, Michael Mlekoday, "Self Potrait, Fat Tueday"

My sister--the one who recently had surgery at the University of Michigan--is back in the hospital again.  She was transported via ambulance from the nursing home to the ER on Saturday.  Dehydration.  Possible infection.  Changes in her mental status.

I went to visit her after work this afternoon.  She was really agitated when I got there.  I wasn't even sure she knew who I was.  She kept thumping her leg, over and over, in some kind of rhythm.  Bap-bap-bap.  Pause.  bap-bap-bap.  For the first 20 minutes I was in the room, all she said was "what."  I'd say, "Are you thirsty?"  She'd say, "What."  I'd ask, "Are you cold?"  She'd say, "What."

I've visited people in the psychiatric ward.  My sister reminded of the people I saw there.  At points, I thought she was going to rip out her IV or try to get out of bed.  She never relaxed.  Her legs were moving, or her arms or her hands, as if her body was running some kind of race in bed.

The doctor's still don't know what's wrong with my sister.  During the hour-and-a-half I was with her tonight, she never was herself.  I fed her some mashed potatoes and gravy.  Gave her water and milk to drink.  The only time she even said my name was when I was leaving.  I got up to go, and she looked at me and said, "I love you, Mart." 

When I got back to my car, I sat there crying for a couple of minutes.

So, I'm a little down tonight.  My Ives dip question is:

Will my sister ever be well--mentally and physically--again?

And the answer:

Then Explixa spoke of "existing outside of time."  Each moment, as he saw it, one died only to be reincarnated again.  With each "little death," one moved inexorably toward the eternal peace of a Supreme Death.

Supreme Death.  Well, I have to say that's not very encouraging.  Maybe I need to stop doing Ives dips.

Michael Mlekoday is the Poet of the Week.  He is a National Poetry Slam Champion, and his collection The Dead Eat Everything is a stunning debut.

Saint Marty needs a drink.

Self Portrait, Fat Tuesday

by:  Michael Mlekoday

Then I ate the dust
of an abandoned house,
and in my mouth it was as sweet
as the time our heat kicked on
after three days.  Then I ate a police officer's gun,
dismantling it into small pieces like warm bread
and tucking them slowly into my mouth.
And as I swallowed all this, I expanded.
And as I took the city into me like a harvest,
I grew hard as brick, hard as a frozen creek
behind a cemetery overflowing with names
I cannot remember for I have eaten them, too, yes,
I have gorged myself on the dead.  I have made my body
haunted, and it was sweet as a creaking hinge in the dark.

Make it a double