poetry, summer 2024

HEALTHCARE

FROM THE DITCH

The homeless man outside my house is warned for painting a picture of himself dead at the intersection of SE 82nd and Alder. He is called into Good Samaritan Hospital at 2:47 a.m and discharged at 5:36 a.m. w/ a pair of sneakers and a Sprite. He sleeps in a ditch, his dirty jeans flagged with foxtails. The little wheatheads embed themselves in his cirrhotic body, spines splicing their way into his bloodstream, working their way into his leathery skin, shooting for his heart, his liver, his brain.  

One works its way into his aorta and makes a stent. To everyone’s surprise, his health improves.  The Portland General Electric tar covers & soothes his sores. The gutter butts become his blood pressure pills. The chainlink fence comprises staples that stitch together his wounds. In time, his skin becomes softer, hair thicker, glossier. The broken blood vessels in his nose disperse. His Dupuytren’s dissipates and his knotted thumbs unfold like ferns. The rats that sample his blood find the test results to be normal, all within range. He donates his liver to the dogs, the ones in hospital because of foxtails in their brains and foxgloves in their bellies, because all the chocolate the well-wishers have brought has wreaked hell on their livers. It is HELL on their livers, and they lick his reborn skin in gratitude that is slobbery and unrestrained. The spiky seedpod in his chest backflips with joy, and when his heart murmurs he gives a grandfatherly smile and tries to listen as usual.

&

30 QUESTIONS

I WAS ASKED AS A

COVID-19 CASE INVESTIGATOR

  1. Shouldn’t you already know my date of birth?

  2. You joking?

  3. Are you going to call my work?

  4. He doesn’t live here anymore; can I give you the number to the shelter?

  5. I, uh, live in my car, is that okay or do you need a real address?

  6. Did you say you DO or DON’T report to ICE?

  7. If I haven’t left my room since the miscarriage, does my family still need to quarantine?

  8. Are the children still allowed to see their psychiatrists?

  9. What is ‘race and ethnicity’?

  10. My sister hasn’t been able to eat for 6 months; do you have any idea when her sense of smell might come back?

  11. Tôi có thể tiếp tục bổ sung vitamin D không?

  12. So if I saw my primary on Tuesday, got sick on Friday, but had a hookup on Thursday, that’s only one exposure, right?

  13. Am I transgender? Ha!

  14. He’s a real idiot, isn’t he?

  15. Is there any way you don’t have to tell my wife about the rent assistance?

  16. Have you ever tried to wear a mask while doing auto repair, with all the motor oil and the noise—you try that and get back to me, okay hon?

  17. And the grocery order—will I have to pay that back?

  18. So when can I get my cancer treatment rescheduled?

  19. So you really still won’t let me on the plane?

  20. How can I convince her to go to the hospital?

  21. She’s in hospice, so why does it even matter?

  22. Did you get the vaccine?

  23. My dad died of COVID last Christmas, can you see that?

  24. Fine, but how much is the ambulance going to cost?

  25. Is there anything you can do to stop this wedding from happening?

  26. Do you think he would have survived?

  27. Can you do anything to make him less awful, please?

  28. Tell him to stop yelling, won’t you?

  29. ‘Hazel’ was my mother’s name. What are the odds of that?

  30. Do you think they’ll still let me be an astronaut?

hazelle lerum

(@hazellerachelle) is a queer writer and emergency manager from Portland, OR. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming at Chestnut Review, Bullshit Lit, HAD, HOAX, and other places, including her website: hazellelerum.com.