That Kind of Poem

In one wing of a nursing home

In a bright suburb, a woman

Calls hoarsely, over and over,

I need to be changed! Misery

Has many little intervals.

You can remember an evening

In the cancer ward when the pain

Rose in you like bilge in the hull

Of a suddenly gouged sailboat.

In no time at all, you gave up

On call buttons and simply thrashed

About in the bed, hollering

Over and over about pain,

Yelling into the air for help

Until help came. You didn’t drown,

But it was days before you were

Fully articulate again.

Language, in those circumstances,

What is it, exactly? It’s more

Than a pure scream—it messages—

I need to be changed, I’m in pain—

But it’s so carved down to its soul.

It’s rigid info, the SOS,

And it has an internal space

You can feel when you’re inside it,

As if you’ve burrowed inside it,

Are burrowing by your screaming,

And you’re not thinking about words.

You’re screaming in hopes screaming works.

There’s no name for that kind of poem.