On Patmos, Kneeling in the Panagea by Samuel Green

On Patmos, Kneeling in the Panagea

 

we hear the sound of a woman’s high-heeled 

       shoes striking the stones of the floor,

confident stride, strong hips, & I am 

       back in a hospital bed at Clark Air

 

Force Base, the Philippines, September, 

       1969, hearing a pair of shoes tapping their way

down the corridor outside my ward. I’d been 

       knocked off a motorcycle by a drunk jitney

 

driver in Cavite City five days before, 

       left leg shattered, compound fractures,

bone left on the street, flown to the surgeons 

       at Clark who cleaned, debrided, sutured

 

& hung me up in traction. There were three 

       of us in the ward. An air force guy

had blown the fingers off his left hand with a 

       homemade bomb. He’d been at Cam Ranh Bay

 

at a party on the beach. Stupid, stupid, he said. 

       The other guy was army, only seventeen,

right leg gone below the knee, left arm 

       just above the elbow. Out on a routine

 

patrol his first week in-country, stood up to pee 

       & the other newbie, pulling first guard,

shot him. We went through boot together. He spent 

       his days with a model ship, awkward

 

as it was to snap the pieces off & glue them into 

       place one-handed. If I can do this, maybe

I can put myself together again, he said. Each night 

       after lights out, he cried for an hour, softly,

 

into the snot on his pillow. The staff shrink was pissed 

       I wouldn’t say yes to amputation, said

I was immature. By that time I was hooked 

       on Demerol, my butt cheeks already bared

 

at the stroke of each third hour, ready 

       for the needle. End of that week,

late, they wheeled in three gurneys, jammed 

       them tight against the walls, woke

 

us up. One held an army captain, left leg just 

       a stump. He was hyper. Twitchy. Talked

a nurse into a telephone, called his wife. I’m fine, 

       sweetheart, just fine. I’m coming home, voice cracked.

 

He didn’t mention the leg. Second guy was nothing 

       but plaster & gauze, both arms in casts, slits

at eyes & mouth. He didn’t move, didn’t make 

       a noise. Third man didn’t have any sheets

 

over him, only a gown. Both legs gone, left arm missing 

       nearly to the shoulder, rubber tubes in both

nostrils, a pair of IV bags hung on posts 

       from either side of the gurney. His mouth

 

was open, eyes glazed. He made a sound like a pair 

       of house slippers shuffling across a bare

carpet. His catheter bag was half full. 

       One of the volunteers came in the door

 

just as the orderlies left. They were officers’ wives 

       for the most part, helping out while their

husbands flew supply runs or medevacs, stabilized 

       patients, wrote long, exacting reports. The war

 

was far away, except for the wards. They fetched us 

       decks of cards, looked for paperbacks,

helped us fill out daily menus, poured out 

       cups of water, let us flirt a bit, ignored our looks

 

of lust. This one looked tired. She talked with 

       the captain, who still seemed buzzed, his hands

fluttering like bats. His stump thumped up 

       & down as he talked. His top sheet was stained

 

brown. He kept repeating home, home, home. I heard her 

       say the plane would load & leave real early, he

should try to sleep. She put a hand on his 

       forehead. He settled, closed his eyes. She

 

moved on to the gauze man, but didn’t do much 

       more than stand. She reached a hand as though

to touch, but stopped, adjusted the edge of a sheet 

       & turned away. She murmured something low

 

to the third soldier, put her ear down near 

       his face & nodded. She took a cup of ice

from a stand, carefully placed a chip between 

       his lips & let it melt. She did it twice

 

more. Anything I can get you, soldier? Her voice 

       was soft. He made a groan, like

a rusted nut coming loose on a bolt. Yeah, 

       he said, I want some cake, a chocolate cake.

 

She watched as water dribbled down his neck, said 

       What? He said it again. She shook her head.

I’m sorry, she said, but you can’t eat. She tried to give him 

       one more piece of ice. Lady, he said,

Jesus, lady, I don’t wanna eat it. I just wanna look 

       at it. He clamped his teeth down hard

grinding away at pain, turned his head to 

       the wall. A minute more, she left the ward,

 

gone for the night. Then it was another shot 

       for me, lights out again & sleep. They came

before breakfast, the nurses, changing linen, 

       bags, IVs, a single bed pan. The same

 

orderlies took the captain first. He waved 

       at us when he left. Then they took the white

ghost who never moved or spoke. That was when 

       we heard the click of high heels out

 

in the hall & the volunteer walked in, dressed 

       for a date, strapless bright green gown,

blonde hair hanging over bare shoulders. She was 

       carrying a cake in two hands, a big round

 

three-layer cake, a single candle lit. She walked to 

       the soldier’s gurney & stopped. He heard

her coming & turned to look: the froth of chocolate 

       same color as his skin. They didn’t say a word.

 

The orderlies returned. One checked the blood 

       pressure in his remaining arm; one

changed the flow on both IVs. The soldier 

       raised the stump of his arm, let it down

 

soft on the rumpled sheet. His nose & eyes 

       were leaking. The orderlies released

the gurney’s brake & wheeled him out. She took 

       a few steps back to let them pass.

 

We saw her shoulders shake. She stayed like that 

       a long, long time, then turned & left

without speaking. The candle had gone out, 

       left a trail of smoke, like a fighter jet

 

leaves across a clear sky. The guy who blew off 

       his own hand said, She could have left us

some. But it was all right. We couldn’t have eaten 

       the smallest bite of that darkness,

 

as here, on a Greek island thousands of miles 

       & more than forty years away,

I wait for the bread of the body, kneeling 

       beside a woman who feeds me every day.