Content provided in partnership with
First Cold - Poem
Literary Review, Summer, 2000 by Diane Lockward
Rales of phlegm rattled the midnight air. The baby all stuffed up, asleep in his crib. Later his crying, different this time-- a sad crying, not meaning, Feed me. I'd never felt flesh so hot. He burned like a cinder. I watched the thermometer rise to 104 [degrees], and I froze, then ran to the phone to call my husband, still in transition between single and married. I dialed the bar where I knew he'd be. A stranger answered. I could hear music and laughter. The voice on the phone was drunk. I said my husband's name, Is he there? The voice wanted to make jokes-- Who wants to know? What's it worth to you? I asked again, Please, is he there? and I began to cry, Please, my baby is sick, and the man became sober, said, Hold on, lady, just hold on, and he found my husband and sent him home. For hours we took turns dipping the baby into tepid water, as if bronzing him. Toward dawn the fever broke, and the baby peed. An arc of urine rose like a fountain and fell, tinged the water yellow. My husband and I faced each other across the plastic tub, gazed in mute wonder at the small priest who'd come to bless and curse us both, two strangers, hardly knowing our names.
Diane Lockward's poetry has appeared in the Beloit Poetry Journal and other literary magazines, and has been featured on Poetry Daily and Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac
COPYRIGHT 2000 Fairleigh Dickinson University
COPYRIGHT 2000 Gale Group
