Holding Vigil
by Alison Luterman
(published in Rattle, Poets Respond, on November 3, 2024)
My cousin asks if I can describe this moment,
the heaviness of it, like sitting outside
the operating room while someone you love
is in surgery and you’re on those awful plastic chairs
eating flaming Doritos from the vending machine
which is the only thing that seems appealing to you, dinner-wise,
waiting for the moment when the doctor will come out
in her scrubs and face-mask, which she’ll pull down
to tell you whether your beloved will live or not. That’s how it feels
as the hours tick by, and everyone I care about
is texting me with the same cold lump of dread in their throat
asking if I’m okay, telling me how scared they are.
I suppose in that way this is a moment of unity,
the fact that we are all waiting in the same
hospital corridor, for the same patient, who is on life support,
and we’re asking each other, Will he wake up?
Will she be herself? And we’re taking turns holding vigil,
as families do, and bringing each other coffee
from the cafeteria, and some of us think she’s gonna make it
while others are already planning what they’ll wear to the funeral,
which is also what happens at times like these,
and I tell my cousin I don’t think I can describe this moment,
heavier than plutonium, but on the other hand,
in the grand scheme of things, I mean the whole sweep
of human history, a soap bubble, because empires
are always rising and falling, and whole civilizations
die, they do, they get wiped out, this happens
all the time, it’s just a shock when it happens to your civilization,
your country, when it’s someone from your family on the respirator,
and I don’t ask her how she’s sleeping, or what she thinks about
when she wakes at three in the morning,
cause she’s got two daughters, and that’s the thing,
it’s not just us older people, forget about us, we had our day
and we burned right through it, gasoline, fast food,
cheap clothing, but right now I’m talking about the babies,
and not just the human ones, but also the turtles and owls
and white tigers, the Redwoods, the ozone layer,
the icebergs for the love of God—every single
blessed being on the face of this earth
is holding its breath in this moment,
and if you’re asking, can I describe that, Cousin,
then I’ve gotta say no, no one could describe it
we all just have to live through it,
holding each other’s hands.
Every once in a while--and not often enough, and usually only for sad reasons--a poem goes viral. This is the latest one to do so.
It was published by Rattle, which every week publishes a poem on their site in a section called Poets Respond. And that is what it is--poets send in poetry submissions based on something in the news that week. One poem is chosen and published. After reading Alison Luterman's "Holding Vigil," I think anyone can see why this one was chosen. It was published on the Sunday before Election Day, and then passed around on that day and the next.
I think the metaphor Luterman chose of a loved one having surgery was appropriate; it certainly captured the gravity so many felt. I also appreciate the way she began the poem, with that first line. I, too, have been asked for the perfect poem/pick-me-up/spark to help someone during troubled times; unfortuantely for those who asked me, I have been unable to crawl out of my own despair. I am thankful Luterman did not have the same trouble.
And although this poem is one that contains within its words every negative feeling, just like that awful hospital waiting room wait, We end with a glimmer of hope. We have to live through it, of course, but we can do so unified, supporting one another, thinking about the next generations, the animals, the environment. That may be the only way we can live through this.
Feel free to keep this vigil viral (sorry--I could not help myself). Share this link and also check out other Poets Respond poetry at Rattle--it is a treasure trove of incredible poems.
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