Motel Room Without a Night Light
I open doors in the middle of the night,
like a game show where I have to choose
which of the three—bulb-shaped doorknobs,
no difference, but what can I do
except stub my toe? My husband and I arrived
to follow birds, hike coastal trails, eat local bread,
but the real reason—to escape our friend
taken to the ICU and his wife's detailed recaps
of each new protocol. A few years ago
he helped curate the Summer of Love exhibit.
We followed him through galleries—
heard about Better Living Through Chemistry,
a poster on psychedelics. Heard how he met Ben
who videoed Winterland concerts, visual-acid footage
covering the audience, the walls, the band on stage
as we filed through, color and image left on our skin.
Heard about the March to End the Vietnam War poster,
when my father in the VW squareback drove John
to Kezar stadium, up and down San Francisco hills
along with his mother because he wasn't old enough.
Heard about the poster—Help, the Oracle Needs You Today,
the Haight Ashbury underground paper. And this week,
John's installed in a new cancer center, harboring
tumors so plentiful there's no middle back left.
On our hike today in Pt. Reyes,
down to the sea, I didn't know John received
his first chemo drip, told by the nurses he could
hallucinate, found an aura in the room,
flashes of color, found Oneness because he knows
how to love. And here I am, awake in the middle
of the night, trying to find my own way,
standing still for a minute,
realize there's a full moon coming through the skylight.
If I could find an issue of The Oracle, I'd read
the Loving Insertion, an extra sheet tucked in,
and because I have to imagine the script,
because I know so little about loving,
I would pay special attention when the writer appeals
to a culture of tenderness, explains how love
can save someone. And I'll go further, for it will include
a drawing for how to repair the spine, help John walk.
Yet all I can do is open doors, choose the middle door,
groping hangers and blankets,
feeling for a light and finding none.
About the Author: Laurel Benjamin is a Cider Press Review Book Award finalist. She is active with the Bay Area Women’s Poetry Salon, curates Ekphrastic Writers, and is a reader for Common Ground Review. Current and upcoming publication: Pirene’s Fountain, Lily Poetry Review, Cider Press Review, Taos Journal of Poetry, Gone Lawn, Nixes Mate. Pushcart Prize nominee, Laurel holds an MFA from Mills College. She invented a secret language with her brother.
Image Credit: Carol M. Highsmith “Colorful Historic Motel, Wildwood, New Jersey” (2006) Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
As It Ought To Be 