My stepson, three days ago
drank rubbing alcohol, an attempt
at what—death or another of his famous
blackouts—we do not know. In St. Mark’s ICU
tubed to life, he writhes, every
muscle saying NO to this
his latest beverage. The room is
dark, a portrait of the patient, I presume.
A digital monitor, bedside,
blips the heart beat of his
beaten heart. Brit
rolls his eyes with pain or self disgust or
the mistaken beauty of the word
isopropyl. His Dad asks
if he wants to watch TV.