This poem originally appeared in Artsbridge/River Poets 2007 Anthology. The publishers opted to center all text, which is something I never do. A photo of the original is below, along with the cover.
Toby was born at Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital during the 2006 strike there. The poem references the strike — which is like the one taking place as I write this. The strike then — and the strike now — is primarily about staffing issues, which has been a major issue nationally for nurses.
That’s Toby in the photo. He taught himself guitar and played live for the audience at “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” in Dunellen in July.
Happy birthday, Toby.
TINY FINGERS for Toby, seven days old Tiny fingers like the smallest twigs tossed off trees in a storm, scattered across the yard, fragile, like the last warm day of fall or news pages dried and yellowed, flitting in the breeze, or a moment of quiet in Khartoum, in Baghdad or on the back streets of this coughing industrial city. I can feel you twitch and turn in my arms against the rhythms of your new breath under fluorescent lights, against the hum of air conditioning and pinch of feeding tubes, in your room with a view of the city and the river, as our voices, set like sax solos above the clinical din of machines. What could you be thinking, dreaming, seven days old, nurses on strike outside your window, as you raise your hand, cover your face, try to pull the tape off that holds your feeding tube in place? What could you be thinking, fragile fall day the sun out, your parents waiting to take you home.