Happy Poetry Thursday, everyone!
This poem is one that has been festering inside me for a few days. I was struck by the recent press and interview on Princess Diana with her sons. I realized I had never written a poem about her. I usually don't write about celebrities, but I felt as if I wanted to get something down on paper.
Didn't want to write about the usually stuff people mention when talking about Diana. I was thinking about the hospital staff that cared for her in the final moments and what might have happened to them just after. So here's my attempt. First draft, so be kind (and I'm not happy with the title).
After Diana’s Death
After the medical staff put down their tools,
recorded the last electrical transpirations,
slid the masks down their faces in disbelief, in grief,
they knew this moment would always quake,
a tuning fork stuck flatline inside their souls,
a fault inside each surgeon. To hold this heart
in their bare hands until it died
showed them something small about faith,
and how science is always being tested by bad luck.
Who knew seeing this body dismantled—
a body not unlike others before and yet
unlike any before—could bring about
a silence beyond resuscitation.
After, some called their spouses while on break,
cried into the receivers. Some left work early,
found the dawn clouds gnarled around each other.
Some confessed all their sins to anyone who’d listen.
Then there were the others
who tried to go back to their ordinary days,
the ones trained to forget their own skin—
trained to stop life, to start it again—
they drove off in their shiny cars
going wherever they wished to go,
just one more moment in the flow.