dwaine rieves
how to intubate the trachea
Align your head with that of the body
on the table, lifting your eyes above
the mouth, assuming this is a controlled
process, narcotic in and last, of course,
a paralytic, so muscles hang limp
as you thumb up the chin, your fingers now
spreading the lips until the blade impales
the base of the epiglottis, which looks
like the spry bill of a little baseball
cap, that odd guard quaintly curled and stiff as
if also hardened from the welding sparks that
flew when your father bent close to the torch,
but you can’t dwell on what he had to do,
for you must lift the blade, must lift that bill
of this baseball cap above the body
that’s yours to keep going, for the pillars—
two cords parted but still touching upfront—
welcome you into this body, its breath
yours to control as if your own, no steps
to undo before implanting the tube
between the walls of the only process
you were ever really looking for.
Dwaine Rieves lives and writes in Washington, DC. His novel Shirtless Men Drink Free has just been released. His collection When the Eye Forms won the 2005 Tupelo Press Prize for Poetry. He can be reached at www.dwainerieves.com.
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