July 2015
I'm a businessman and chronic English major who began writing poetry about ten years ago. Sometimes, I find myself switching back and forth between a spreadsheet and an unfinished poem. My first book of poems, Where Inches Seem Miles, was published by Antrim House at the end of 2013. In 2014, Kirkus Reviews selected it as one of the best books of the year in the Indie category. I've benefited from workshops at the Concord Poetry Center and from the journals which have published my work, including Rattle, Blackbird, and Salamander. My website, joelfjohnson.com, includes a few videos where I've attempted to combine a reading with appropriate images.
Editor's Note: See Joel's video of his reading this poem HERE.
Are You Safe at Home?
We’re required by law to ask.
Some don’t understand, ask me to explain.
Some (the men) make a joke.
Once, a Laceration said
Yes, thanks to this! Pulled out a pistol
right there in the emergency room as if
anyone in an emergency room would see
anything funny about a drunk with a handgun.
When a Contusions comes in alone,
you see the sunglasses at night, the tissue
for the eye that won’t stop tearing,
how she walks like the floor is ice,
and you already know, so you try
the gentlest tone you can muster,
your kindest, nicest, sweetest voice, saying
Honey, are you safe at home?
You’re praying for a no,
down on your knees begging
for that one word no
so you can call social services,
get her, for once in her miserable life,
help, half a chance to get out, but
before you’ve even finished asking,
you know. Before you ask, you know.
So when she nods her head, those sunglasses
hiding her eyes, you’re already there,
desperate for her chance, pleading
Honey, you have to say it out loud and if
nodding your head means no, just say it,
just say no and we can get you some help, honey.
She turns away, blue tissue wet and wadded
in her fist, lips trembling, and you allow yourself to think
for once, just once, you may have done some good
but then she says yes and you say Are you sure?
and she says yes again and you remind yourself
you’re a nurse, just a nurse, so you say
Tell me about your accident.
-first appeared in Where Inches Seem Miles - Antrim House Books (2013)
We’re required by law to ask.
Some don’t understand, ask me to explain.
Some (the men) make a joke.
Once, a Laceration said
Yes, thanks to this! Pulled out a pistol
right there in the emergency room as if
anyone in an emergency room would see
anything funny about a drunk with a handgun.
When a Contusions comes in alone,
you see the sunglasses at night, the tissue
for the eye that won’t stop tearing,
how she walks like the floor is ice,
and you already know, so you try
the gentlest tone you can muster,
your kindest, nicest, sweetest voice, saying
Honey, are you safe at home?
You’re praying for a no,
down on your knees begging
for that one word no
so you can call social services,
get her, for once in her miserable life,
help, half a chance to get out, but
before you’ve even finished asking,
you know. Before you ask, you know.
So when she nods her head, those sunglasses
hiding her eyes, you’re already there,
desperate for her chance, pleading
Honey, you have to say it out loud and if
nodding your head means no, just say it,
just say no and we can get you some help, honey.
She turns away, blue tissue wet and wadded
in her fist, lips trembling, and you allow yourself to think
for once, just once, you may have done some good
but then she says yes and you say Are you sure?
and she says yes again and you remind yourself
you’re a nurse, just a nurse, so you say
Tell me about your accident.
-first appeared in Where Inches Seem Miles - Antrim House Books (2013)
©2015 Joel Johnson