Spencer Reece, poet

I was introduced to this beautiful, sad poem in the workshop I'm participating in with Mark Doty and seven talented poets. It's been such a treat—though it's also taught me that I have a lot of work to do, not so much to "be a poet" (that will never happen), but to experience this life more fully (a poetic task if ever there was one). 

The poet here, Spencer Reece, is an Episcopalian priest who lives in Madrid. He also worked for many years at Brooks Brothers in the Mall of America, an experience that he captured in his poem "The Clerk's Tale," which in turn was translated into a short film by James Franco. From what little I've seen, Reece is a wonderful poet. I will be reading more of him.

ICU

  For A. J. Verdelle

Those mornings I traveled north on I91,
passing below the basalt cliff of East Rock
where the elms discussed their genealogies.
I was a chaplain at Hartford Hospital,
took the Myers-Briggs with Sister Margaret,
learned I was an I drawn to Es.
In small group I said, "I do not like it—
the way so many young black men die here
unrecognized, their gurneys stripped,
their belongings catalogued and unclaimed."
On the neonatal ICU, newborns breathed,
blue, spider-delicate in a nest of tubes.
A Sunday of themselves, their tissue purpled,
their eyelids the film on old water in a well,
their faces resigned in their see-through attics,
their skin mottled mildewed wallpaper.
It is correct to love even at the wrong time.
On rounds, the newborns eyed me, each one
like Orpheus in his dark hallway, saying:
I knew I would find you, I knew I would lose you.

Image is a microphotograph of dried tears by Maurice Mikkers. 

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Covid-19 numbers are on the rise in Monterey County, as shown in this graph ☛

Today's numbers are 15,765 confirmed cases (up 974 since November 28), 85 current hospitalizations (a new statistic, and a more meaningful one than "total" hospitalizations), and 128 deaths (up 7).