Fred Marchant will be a featured reader at the Somerville News Writers Festival Nov. 13, 2010. Fred is the founder of the Poetry Center at Suffolk University in Boston.
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Balpeen Hammer
He lay sideways on the bed,
the flimsy curtains on their runners
stirring when the nurses rushed by.
They did not plan to admit him,
meaning he would die here soon.
I leaned on the bedrail and watched
his breath enter and leave.
It seemed easy, but he was in a coma,
so who could say?
I dabbed at his parched lips
with a swab until a nurse gave me
a grape popsicle. “Keep an eye on it.”
No telling how long it would be.
No telling if he knew I was doing this,
but I am sure how good it tasted.
I rested the ice on his tongue,
but held the weight off,
balanced it in my hand.
I remembered a balpeen hammer,
a miniature, the size of a popsicle,
my favorite among all his tools.
There was no claw at the back,
but round steel, for peening,
the shaping and smoothing of metal.
That’s how I wanted his minutes
to pass, no thrash or heave,
just a steady tapping away until done.
– Fred Marchant
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dougholder@post.harvard.edu
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