M. Brooke Wiese

Sailing to Tokelau

“…when the Lady Naomi sails to Tokelau, it’s as if the ferry to Weehawken had changed course for France.” – From Letter from Polynesia: Birth of a Nation? in The New Yorker, May 1, 2006

Now, out of sight of land we cling
to anything we can.  The bowsprit plunges
under, plows a trough through rough seas and flings
us willy-nilly as the ship rolls and lunges.

It was dusk or later when we left
the pier and I was reading the paper, though
I had a hunch, and something felt off,
and there were no more lights in view.
			
Under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge
we crashed into the sea.  Past Sandy Hook
the land receded ’til it was a smudge
on the horizon, and gone when we awoke.
			
So much sky! That was what I noticed,
more than the ocean stretching in every direction,
and suit jackets and empty water bottles tossed everywhere.
In the wheelhouse, the captain studied celestial navigation.
		
That was over three weeks ago 
and still no rescue.  Some of the crew
seem overly cheery, and some are sick below.
Please send help if this reaches you.


In the Waiting Room at a Famous Cancer Hospital 

Out of the rumbling ground and into the bright
August light, into the city scrum,
the gum-covered sidewalks, the human bloom,
the lack of air and elbow room, the blight
in streets where rats and pigeons fight 
for crumbs or top-dog status, the scaffolding a boon
only in a storm. Out of the shout and out of the din,
the waiting room is almost too polite.

Heavy curtains drawn against the daylight
mute the voices in the waiting room
to a soft ssh-ssh, like a broom
sweeping.  The carpet’s pattern is infinite;
the low pile guaranteed to accommodate
a cane or walker.  The walls are pale as the moon.
The unassuming art is laudanum
for the sick, unobjectionable as life.
	
You might expect a moan from those with no
hope left, or those alone and lonely. Instead
you’ll find a convivial place where people nod
and smile in passing, yet keep contained as though
a broad gesture or loud guffaw might offend;
and all are patient, and no one finds it odd.

There’s coffee too, and tea (for free!) and no
lack of crackers to nibble by patients with hatted heads
for stomachs distressed by the fusillade
of poisons shot into a vein, a salvo
against the spread of errant cells, the Red
Devil entrenched in a battle to the death with God.

M. Brooke Wiese’s work has appeared most recently in The Orchards Poetry Journal, Sparks of Calliope, The Road Not Taken, The Chained Muse, and in Poem.  Her chapbook, At the Edge of The World, was published by The Ledge Press in 1998, and her sonnets have been taught by poet Billy Collins to his college students.  After a very long hiatus she has been writing furiously again. She lives in New York City, and works in education and nonprofit social services.

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Out of the rumbling ground and into the bright
August light, into the city scrum,
the gum-covered sidewalks, the human bloom,
the lack of air and elbow room, the blight
in streets where rats and pigeons fight 
for crumbs or top-dog status, the scaffolding a boon
only in a storm. Out of the shout and out of the din,
the waiting room is almost too polite.
 
Heavy curtains drawn against the daylight
mute the voices in the waiting room
to a soft ssh-ssh, like a broom
sweeping.  The
carpet’s pattern is infinite;
the low pile guaranteed to accommodate
a cane or walker.  The
walls are pale as the moon.
The unassuming art is laudanum
for the sick, unobjectionable as life.
            
You might expect a moan from those with no
hope left, or those alone and lonely. Instead
you’ll find a convivial place where people nod
and smile in passing, yet keep contained as though
a broad gesture or loud guffaw might offend;
and all are patient, and no one finds it odd.
 
There’s coffee too, and tea (for free!) and no
lack of crackers to nibble by patients with hatted heads
for stomachs distressed by the fusillade
of poisons shot into a vein, a salvo
against the spread of errant cells, the Red
Devil entrenched in a battle to the death with God.