Yesterday I was going through my site to make sure the links still worked, and when I came to the poem NICU I realized the poem had changed since it was published. Of course this is true of many poems--the longer we sit with them, the more possibilities we see. Sometimes these changes are for the better, sometimes not. I am still learning when a poem needs change and when it has had enough attention. In the case of NICU, since I have a record of the changes, I thought it might be interesting to some of you to compare the two versions. The changes are mostly for clarity. And the addition of the last lines.
What do you think?
NICU, as published in Vox Populi in 2017
Why is this night different
Why is this night different
from all other nights? Wine
and matza and now our children
tossing in their childhood beds, dreams
tumbling between then and now,
their children trundled into bunks,
loveys clutched tight. Three a.m.,
our daughter at our bed
and I'm instantly awake.
Stumbling on her words
she tells me Laura is in labor
too early. I'll drive you, I say,
already pulling on jeans.
You can't, she says, you're too upset.
—
On the way
We can't stay at the first
hospital, the baby will need
neo-natal intensive care.
They must go by ambulance,
snaking along the river into Boston,
I must follow in the car.
The river, intermittently lit
as I round curves, seems murky,
intent. And also giddy
with anticipation, almost
unable to hold back
a white-capped splash of laughter.
—
In the room
I make myself small
and quiet, let them take over
space and time. The doctors,
one by one, bring information,
so much information.
Laura refuses the fetal monitor
that would tie her to the bed
and the doctor loses patience,
tells her all the worst that could happen.
They stand there, holding each other.
Her contractions slow.
And then I offer up
stories, remember when we did
this, remember that, and the boundary
waters, and the campsite with the three men
who were welcoming in a threatening
kind of way? Crone that I am,
witch, fairy, sorcerer, mother,
and her contractions start again.
—
When the time comes
There will be commotion
The baby will be whisked away
It can't be helped
Be prepared
And then
into the momentary
hush
the doctor says
Laura
He says Laura
Reach out your arms
Here is your daughter
—
Already
She's so big
my daughter and I say to each other
as we hurry by the side of the cart
to the elevator. We are spilling over
with relief, already proud
that she has defied expectation.
She must be five pounds, we say.
The nurse looks at us.
About three, I'd guess.
—
Please
I hold her, skin
to skin, her naked body
against my naked chest.
I breathe deeply, steadying
my heartbeat, her clock,
her comfort.
Child, open your eyes.
Soon, please, open your eyes.
—
Week five
My daughter says
the dog isn't getting enough exercise.
Lucy says
the snacks in the break room are yummy.
Lucy says
having a sister is fun, when will she talk?
My neighbor says
here's a casserole.
The doctor says
any day now.
***
NICU, current version
Why is this night different
Why is this night different
from all other nights? Wine
and matza and now our children
tossing in their childhood beds, dreams
tumbling between then and now,
their children trundled into bunks,
loveys clutched tight. Three a.m.,
our daughter at our bed
and I'm instantly awake.
Stumbling on her words
she tells me Laura is in labor
too early. I'll drive you, I say,
already pulling on jeans.
You can't, she says, between sobs.
You're too upset.
I stare at her, clear-eyed,
put my hands on her shoulders.
~
On the way
We can't stay at the first
hospital, the baby will need
neo-natal intensive care.
They must go by ambulance.
I follow in the car—snaking
along the river. Lit
in the intermittent code of my headlights
the water appears intent
with purpose I can't read.
And also giddy with anticipation
almost unable to hold back
a white-capped splash of laughter.
~
In the room
I make myself small
and quiet, let them take over
space and time. The doctors,
one by one, bring information,
so much information.
Laura refuses the fetal monitor
which would tether her to the bed
and the doctor loses patience,
tells her all the worst that could happen.
They stand there, holding each other.
Her contractions slow.
And then I offer up
stories, remember when we did
this, remember that, and the boundary
waters, and the campsite with the three men
who were welcoming in a threatening
kind of way? Crone that I am,
witch, fairy, sorcerer, mother,
and her contractions start again.
~
When the time comes
When the time comes
there will be commotion
The baby will be whisked away
It can't be helped
Be prepared
And then
into the momentary
hush
the doctor says
Laura
He says Laura
Reach out your arms
Here is your daughter
~
Already
She's so big
my daughter and I say to each other
as we hurry by the side of the cart
to the elevator. We are spilling over
with relief, already proud
that she has defied expectation.
She must be five pounds, we say.
The nurse looks at us.
About three, I'd guess.
~
Please
I hold her, skin
to skin her naked body
against my naked chest
I breathe deeply, steadying
my heartbeat her clock
her comfort
Child, open your eyes
Soon, please, open your eyes.
~
Week five
My daughter says
the dog isn't getting enough exercise
Luca says
the snacks in the break room are yummy
Luca says
having a sister is fun, when will she talk
My neighbor says
here's a casserole
The doctor says
any day now she can go home
I say
the dog really the dog