I always dreamed of riding in an ambulance
as a kid, admired how its silver-lined
frame shone—bold red symbol of strength—
but not like this. The sirens
used to excite me before I knew
the consequence of their song, deafening
today as the red glare refracts uncertainty,
broken roads twice as long. Her voice
falters with fatigue but still carries
nonetheless and I know that she is okay
for now. She charms the paramedics
with stories, each one softening
the edge of her fear. I've never seen
a woman stand taller and stronger in
the face of all that threatens to
defeat her than my mother. Even now
with a web of wires and tubes
entangled in her white linen blouse
she's talking about movies, music videos
and commercials, how she just finished
wrapping a photo shoot last week and can still
keep up with the young film crews
though she admits that her wrists ache
at times and she gets tired a lot faster
than she used to. I want to take
a picture of her this vulnerable, her face
high in the air as the blare
of horns announce her arrival.

A million little knobs and levers fill
the front of the truck, the shine
beginning to fade. I am overwhelmed
by its garish control, glittery insinuations
of salvation on the way, but all that I can see
is the florescent light flooding through
the open doors onto your face telling me
that this is just a scene being played out
in some script you've already written,
that the curtain will eventually fall at the end, heavy
with confidence that it will rise again.

11/08/2006

Posted on 11/08/2006
Copyright © 2025 Malika Bierstein