Liver of Sulfur

Our son isn’t due to arrive

for two weeks, but already he knows

the threat and wreck

of this place: a truck slammed

(the Sure Kill said the nodding neighbor

as I rushed to a cab

and the university hospital).

In the perinatal center,

the doctors seemed confident

that Naomi and the boy—

we plan to name him Asa—

were unhurt and healthy.

But their art, all slow drip

and ultrasound, their confidence

is alchemy to me: Liver of Sulfur,

Horn Silver, Fulminating Gold.

How can they know? How do

their beeps and blips rule out

a spinal tear, a contusion

on the brain, uterine rupture?

I can’t think about it.

I can’t think about it, and

for now, I’m sweating

in the abandoned, overgrown lot

that verges on our postage-stamp garden,

and lopping at grasping vines

of wild grape that are bullying

the rosebay we’ve planted.

I’ve been reading Borges

and while I hack, I repeat

to myself: the knife, so intimate,

opening my throat.

Borges lived, I was surprised to learn,

into years I remember, early grade school,

Turtle Rock Elementary. His name

translates to of the town. Bourgeoisie

if you’re cynical. Asa means healer

in one language, hawk in another.

so intimate. Healer

and hawk. Healer and hawk.

Think of all the people, Asa,

who have lived, as Borges,

while I’ve lived, all those

who will live while you live.

Those, all those, who will die.