Hunter Deary And Hospital Wing Poem by Ken Babstock

Hunter Deary emits noises like peach pits;
dry, scrotal humming that punctuates fits.
When a hip comes loose it comes loose
before breakfast and she pops it back in
with a winch, a rock, a clean tube and hemp belt.
Ask Hunter Deary what the microbes
are for. Ask Hunter Deary what the library's
for. Ask Hunter Deary what agent con-
tested her birthright, her staying out late, her
transmission on broadband at night.
The men in the neon X. The hole in the
plastic. The ppb. The stitches. The snug.
The snug. The stitches. The parts per billion.
Hospital Wing sings to his children.
Children of blood lung.
Children of static.
Hospital Wing sings to his children.
The snug. The stitches. The parts per billion.
Hunter Deary has clicked on the task pane
reads there what they cut from the thought:
a topographical map of the region, a vein
darkening wetlands, strung north through
some temperate zone. Hunter Deary left gas
in a bird's nest, bags under bypasses
phenobarbital in the mud of the Don. Hunter
Deary in traction. Hunter Deary in Huntsville.
She's counting down days to a hearing, fed on
black pumpkin, on cheese string, on
marrow sucked through wing of an auk. Ages
in ice bubble. Calving. The fake vermillion.
Calving. Ice bubbles. The fake vermillion.
Hospital Wing sings to his children.
Children born sexless and cleansed.
Leaded gametes in frog ponds.
Hospital Wing sings to his children.
Calving. The ages. The fake vermillion.