Marguerite has ten babies.
She is twenty-four, like me, but has ten babies.
I have known this woman all my life and
she didn't always have these babies.
When we were young she would tell me stories of how
she would be a Solid Gold dancer and wear
sequined dresses on stage.

Now when I see her, she is always
round and weary and calling after three or four of her babies.
Well, some of them are hardly babies.
Jessie is eleven, and ready to have her own babies.
Some nights Jessie sings with her girlfriends on the corner and
makes up dances and giggles.
Then they dance for the boys
and stop giggling, for now.

I sat
talking with
the mystery patient
as the eager
medical student

squealed with
delight
on reading
newly discovered old
records
that filled
in blank
spaces
of the history

her brow furrowed
as if she saw
something approaching.

Later I cautioned
with care
not to quell
enthusiasm:

never appear
too interested in the
facts of the case
as patients know

the more interesting
their case - the worse off
they are.

Free of all cares and fears, she has
known of no misery.
Her world was full of joy, but that
became a memory.

Her playful days were doomed, it seems.
A semi stopped them cold.
'Twas driven by a drunken man,
upon a city road.

She has been lifeless for a year,
Was she to live or die?
Who knows. They say there is no hope,
since she was only five.

Though fourteen years have passed, she still
recalls that tragedy.
Her talk brings out the tears in me.
There is no comedy.

She wants to learn, but has been stopped
by disability.
The misery of man, that has
become reality.

She says, I want to be a norm.
She says it with distress.
She knows her morrow not. She mourns
because she is depressed.

1.
Posts standing upright, a small hole
drilled through each steel shaft,
each one humming softly
as the wind rushes by.
Rails stretched out to grasp other posts,
making a fence of their musical tones.

2.
Up on the sun deck, a row
of old men in old wheelchairs.
Sunset paints their pajamas orange,
a luminous frame for the holes
in their necks, each hole murmuring
a warm, moist note.

3.
Corralled for recreational therapy,
the locked-ward patients all sing.
A rough chorus of untutored voices,
each voice is fine-tuned
by a hole in the head.

One large, miasmic abscess
encased in skin
And it can move, in fact it walks
Walks around. Around and around and around
It can sit, too.
Just like you.

Looks OK.
But inside
the festering, oozing, thickness
goes on.

OPTIONAL
Perhaps one day soon
The procedure.
Go in there and clean it up
suck out the pus
Aspirate
Dig away some of the good too
To make sure you got it all.

Then . . .
Then what?
Well maybe it will regenerate.
Health
Or perhaps it was too much—scar.
Either way it can't be like before
"Isn't there a chance?" they might ask.
And you can say "Sure, of course."
But you know there isn't.

The rarity of miracles
    is doubted by few,
Save those who stare deeply
    into eyes that are blue.
Tears fall as he squints
    at the bright light in fear,
And wonders and shivers
    as a voice meets his ear:
"My son, my miracle, my love, you are here."

His skin soft as cotton
    but wrinkled and wet
As innocent and quiet
    as a child could get
He stares through those slits
    and scrambles for thoughts
And forms his first memories
    his belly in knots
He screams in confusion: "What has destiny brought?"

Through his fear of unknowns,
    spies he one striking face.
In her arms he feels warmth
    and his heart 'gins to race.
Held tight to her breast
    he feels her heart pound
His eyes become heavy,
    mind spinning around.
When they shut, he dreams only of colors and sounds.

As time races onward,
    how quickly he grows
He studies his discovery
    of fingers and toes.
Rolling over, he coos
    and gurgles and plays
And pees and poops
    and screams where he lays.
He knows they will come—he's studied their ways.

When he discovers his balance,
    he sits, then he stands.
Clumsy but curious
    are his sweet little hands.
He conquers the stairs
    then his bladder and stool
And learns by mistakes,
    as he conquers pre-school
Since attachment to mother is no longer the rule.

Independent at eight,
    he frolics through June
With lemonade stands
    and Saturday cartoons.
The cuts and the bruises
    of each arm and leg
Mark an adventure, a victory,
    a battle, a plague.
And, when called in at dusk, it's more time that he begs.

Though the adventures continue,
    time does not wait.
Though Mom wishes him smaller,
    growth is his fate.
Sprouting above her
    much more is he taught.
Defending beliefs
    hard battles are fought.
So much to consider, while lost in his thoughts.

Face riddled with pimples
    he clashes and fights.
They just do not fathom
    the extent of his plight.
His life seems as Hell
    and his questions abound
Asking: "Why is there Life?"
    and: "Where am I bound?"
But, in the midst of despair, true Love has he found.

Well, the seasons they change
    and the years they pass
The boy becomes man
    and graduates from his class.
And, for the woman beside him,
    the Love of his Life
He proclaims his Love
    and makes her his wife.
And they face Life together, the challenge and strife.

They work for good credit
    and to buy a nice home
An auto with airbags,
    a vacation in Rome.
And, as his parents before him,
    he wishes and prays
He trusts in the miracles
    of God's loving ways.
And a blessing arrives on a wintery day.

She stares with blue eyes
    and studies his face
Then drifts into sleep
    in his loving embrace.
The three become four
    and then become five
How lucky he is
    to be blessed with their lives.
For their safety and happiness is all that he strives.

Through good times and bad,
    through stitches and flu
He absorbs all their fears
    as a father should do.
And as they grow older
    and each takes their leave
He beams with pride
    at the success they achieve
And only the death of his youth does he grieve.

Time spares no man
    and holds back the years
The last child leaves
    as he fights back the tears.
But strong he remains
    as each wrinkle peaks
And to look twenty-seven
    is all that he seeks.
"It's your time to be old," remind his bones with a `creak.'

As sure as life starts,
    it surely must end.
He bows his head thoughtfully,
    bids farewell to a friend.
His parents are gone now
    he misses them so
The children are grown
    his longing they know
And, the grandkids—amazing, how quickly they grow.

The days become longer
    and he feels trapped beneath
No more comes the tooth fairy
    to trade for his teeth.
His cabinet is weighted
    with bottles and vials
Blood pressure and sugar
    reflect daily trials.
And his bowels have not moved for a very long while.

With a tear in his eye
    he sends off his Love
And prays for a rendezvous
    somewhere above.
In loneliness he dwells
    with each passing day
His hearing and eyesight
    have faded away.
And, had he the company, he'd have nothing to say.

His innocence now lost,
    his memories now fade,
His destiny now sure,
    and he surely afraid.
His joints are all painful,
    his head now it pounds
Neither sees he, nor hears he
    his family around.
And he bids them farewell, without uttering a sound.

Tears fall as he squints
    at the bright light in fear
And wonders and shivers
    as a voice meets his ear:
"My son, my miracle, my love, you are here."

My car was a victim of a drive-by shooting last weekend. I noticed the gaping hole on the driver's side, the
green glass shattered on the seat and on Diversey Avenue. The window behind it was also broken with the cracked glass emanating from one small hole—probably from a BB or a bullet.

A twenty-nine year old African-American woman was seen at the Emergency Room on October 19 at 02:00 with multiple lacerations on chest, back, and arms, two broken ribs on the right side. Exhibited shortness of breath upon arrival, torn clothing, vaginal bleeding.

I called up my insurance agent, who immediately telephoned a glass company. Once they called me, I cleared some of the glass from the seat and cautiously drove to the repair shop. The remaining jagged glass fell from the window at my side and onto the street. I arrived safely at the shop and left the car there until Monday.

She told no one. Lying on her side, clothing steeped in sweat and dirt, she called a cab. She waited alone in the lobby of her apartment, shaking and sobbing quietly.

The shop attendant confirmed the hole was from a gunshot. I was shaken, but remained relatively calm. On the way home I stepped into a party shop and bought a purple balloon for myself. I talked to a seven-year-old boy who was picking up the decorations for his one hundred and one dalmatians theme party. We laughed at his large dalmatian-covered pi¤ata.

The ribs were taped, seven stitches on lower lip, antiseptic applied to cuts on back, shoulders and chest. Patient said she fell down the stairs in the dark. Discharged at 04:12.

At home I called the police to inform them of the shooting. I wondered if they might want to look at the car, but I had already brought it in. I expected little and received even less. The 19th district merely put my name on a card and recorded that someone had used a gun on my block. They said there was nothing else that they could do, nor could I.

The woman unlocked the front door, threw her purse on the floor, and slowly dropped to her bed. Her ribs were tender. It was too dark to see the dried blood on her bedsheets. She was too rattled to think about the tests not administered for infections. She wanted only to clutch her sheets, squeeze her eyes shut, and hope the pain would subside. She would not call the police. She had called once before, when she was bleeding much worse, was burned with her iron, and her vagina was raw, bloody, and later filled with painful blisters. They came to the emergency room, but they would not press charges. He was, after all, her boyfriend. She would tell no one, again, and quieted her aching body with sleep.

My car had brand new glass on Monday. The glass was easily replaced, but now I park my car in a garage.

She presses her fingers to her lips and winces. The pain will continue until she speaks or until she is beaten so hard that she no longer feels.

You took an oath to heal and save
And yet without payment your oath you waive

Penniless I come to be cured, uninsured and
        am treated like cattle, prodded uncaringly

Where are those velvet gloves of yours
That swore to be gentle and kind?
Did I hear you right, or was I living, innocent,
Thinking that yours was the last honorable profession.

Excusez moi, I didn't mean to dirty your driveway
But you are a defender of the sick, are you not?
I came to you ragged and injured asking for my
        paw to be bandaged and you send me to get welfare
        approval; otherwise your welfare is in jeopardy.

Am I wrong but when you marched down that ivy-
covered aisle, proud to be called "Dr.," did I
detect a tear in your eye and dreams in your head
that one day you would save the sick and wounded
masses?
        I must have been the dreamer.

You, in your ideal state, young, unjaded, made a contract
with God and yourself to give unselfishly to heal.

What happened, Doc?
Did the smell of perfume overshadow the smell of
        alcohol?
Did the splendour of the Gold Coast tempt you to
        forsake the ghetto?
Was a Mercedes the real goal and purpose of your
        life?

What a shame!

I have no legal recourse to take now but to accuse
        you of a breach of contract.

Hey, Doc!
You sold your soul for a white coat.

Open your heart
let me see

What's wrong with me,
What do I hear?
mumbling sounds, exasperation sighs,
I'm not mute I could speak.

Feeling exposed, impotent to explain
I look all around me, I'm so afraid.
Like a child all over again
They move me around while examining me
forgetting I'm here.
I know it's difficult for you
and I understand,
You have to work with sign language
for I can't explain
I'm a poor historian yes,
and I regret not speaking your language
Who could I blame?

And so, I'm here
Deaf, Blind and Mute all the same
or like a Child all over again.
But, please be kind and patient with me
try to understand, though I'm
not the child, nor the blind, nor the deaf
Like a child, I'm the patient who is growing up
again...always confused and misunderstood
lacking control...feeling afraid.

The note said `Hard of Hearing,'
so I yelled into your ear
and pummeled you with questions
like how and why and where?

Quietly, you stared at me
and smiled at my youth,
revealing gums between two lips
but not a single tooth.

I smiled back and grasped your hand
and begged you for a clue
of what was wrong and how I could
begin to care for you.

With a silence you responded.
I was tempted to depart,
but you reached out for my stethoscope
and placed it on your heart.

It beat for me a tired tune
and told me it was ill
and asked me for a simple cure;
A potion, paste, or pill.

As I listened to your heart,
the picture became clear.
My eyes looked up and met your gaze,
which asked me to draw near.

Your hand that held mine told me then
that while your heart was weak,
your mind was strong and if I'd listen,
volumes you could speak.

And so I thanked you quietly.
This time I did not yell.
You'd answered me and now you'd need
my help to make you well.

I promised you I'd be back soon
as I left your room to start
describing you in sterile terms
on pages in your chart.

My hand limps
to my side.

Now I shiver
and see
tiny red spiders;
they are crawling over me,
devouring my skin,
I point to them,
but my hand shakes,
I am puffy.

I am a man,
but I am pregnant
with my debauchery.

My mother is here
telling the doctor,
"Maybe he'll learn this time,
maybe he'll control himself.
Do you think he'll learn?"

The doctor just shakes his head
while watching my spiders.

tiny particles that tell our futures
those particles called genes
that we cannot see
but may tell us our destiny

two of these particles have irreverently changed places leaving
this poor man unable to see the trees
changing colors and the flowers blooming
but the scientific masters can help you
for a small fee
just a small vial of blood is all we need
we can fix it
and he can see the blood red roses

and you, se¤ora
is it painful to walk with a hunched back
bones that crack and shoot
your marrow with steel nails
for a small fee
we can fix you
straighten your back and quicken your gait
¨No dinero?
then we will not need your blood
your particles will continue to dance a backward waltz

As we note the beginning of the new quarter
by actually attending lecture, let us take our
obsolete, highlighted to iridescent oblivion,
second hand, would be pre-lecture prep
coops and handouts;
shelves of every text, atlas, and workbook
rumored to be helpful, comprehensive,
concise or required;
1991/92 UIC academic planners marked with the
time and place of every conference, workshop,
appointment, lecture, and lab;
fantasies of getting up early every morning—
painlessly;
misguided notions of the best way to learn
all there is to know;
and shove it
so we can get some work done

I know I know
one fact about that

besides it's bad
and hope none of my patients get it.
Sometimes

I think maybe
the less we knew
the less sick our patients would be
but this is magical thinking.

You can't just practice
goodwill
people expect more —

Our clinical gaze
directed like jedai sabers
cutting to their core
detecting all

Measuring cells and salts in body fluids
Without a clue
from where these rivers flow

Maybe, it's all just epi-
phenomena

of God—the more fundamentalist of you will say
as the others raise their eyes up towards heaven
not in blissful agreement but
cross-eyed, skeptical and wanting more

of an explanation

like the fact that
promyelocytic leukemia
is often associated with DIC

My mother, functional as a freight train.
Yards of sheets hung in the basement,
Dinners well prepared on time.
Hawk nosed, keen eyed,
Shelling peas in metal pans on summer nights.
Hair pulled back, a chestnut ring taut around
        a face all business,
        and a nose indicating, straight ahead,
        the proper deportment in wooden pews
        and in classrooms.

Lesson plans and graduate papers, written at the
        dining room table, late at night
        after children's bedtime,
        after dishes,
        after sex?

We arrived in steps, and played about her
        blue veined legs,
Soft and warm, but never still,
        never making laps.

Last night she turned
And her arms, trembling,
Reached for my face
And cupped it, perfectly,
In soft warm hands.

She fixed my eyes with faded blue ones,
The net of wrinkles by her eyes
Soft as pansy petals
Under my finger tips.
No tears, no agitation.
She's still in there, she's still in there.
Worth a year of visits on Monday, Wednesday and, sometimes,
        Friday.

    The man from the old country sits unshaven at the table in the kitchen. Baseball's on, but he doesn't
watch it anymore. The sunbeams fall across the newspaper that he grips tightly with both hands. Hanging on.
    Short white hair on the sides and back of his head, none on top, he wears the same outfit I've seen
on him for 23 years: blue, collared, long-sleeved, buttoned shirt; black pants; suspenders.
    "What day is today?"
    "Tuesday!" replies the short, curly-headed wife in the house dress. She's by the stove cooking sauce
for the pasta.
    "Did I go to work today?"
    "Sure."
    "I did?"
    "No! Of course not. You've been here with me all day. You haven't been to work in six months."
    "Six months? Why?"
    "Because you're retired. There's no more shop. You're 88 years old. We have enough money.
You don't need to work anymore."
    "Retired. That's OK for other people, but for me, I prefer to work. What day is it today?"
    "Thursday!"
    "Did I go to work today?"
    "No!"
    "Why?"
    "You know why."
    "I'm retired?"
    "Yes! Besides, you're sick, too."
    "Get outta here. I feel pretty healthy."
    "Well, three months ago you didn't. You were in the hospital then for heart failure. You feel fine
now because of the medicine we got for you."
    "Medicine?"
    "Yes. You know. It's on the table right next to you!"
    "I swear to God this is news to me. I musta been in another country or something."
    "Why don't you watch the baseball game?"
    "It's terrible when someone loses their marbles. . . . Am I losing my mind?"
    "Well . . . a little bit, dear. You just don't remember things so well."
    "Oh. Hey! What day is it today?"

VERSE ONE
Em    Am           The purple horse has lept its moon,
Em    Am           And the one-eyed banker plays his tune,
G      D              While the crawling anthill builds its hair,
Em    D     Em    The buck-toothed pole shouts, "Be aware!"

CHORUS
Am                    They say I must be crazy.
G                       They say I must be ill.
Am    D              I just know that I'd be dead
Em    D    Em     If looks could really kill.

G                       For once I saw the sun shine,
D                       She brightened up my life;
Am    D              But noon gave in to afternoon,
Am D Am E       And evening became night.

VERSE TWO
Em    Am            I saw a chicken eating cake,
Em    Am            And an old man using nails for bait;
G       D              My three feet have come undone,
Em     D    Em     A hot dog on a hamburger bun.

CHORUS

VERSE THREE
Em    Am           The couch stands slowly on its head,
Em    Am           And the color green will soon be red;
G       D             The lonely plant cries home alone,
Em    D    Em     While the dancing bricks begin to moan.

Am                     They say I must be crazy.
G                        They say I must be ill.
Am    D               I just know that I'd be dead
Em    D    Em      If looks could really kill.

Em   D  G Am     I long for the sun to rise again.
E

A hefty honey you once were, the queen of the divas,
        all sugar and spice.
Now food for worms, won't that be nice

We watched you wither into translucent bone and all the
        features grew too distinct
Tears we shed and you shed none - the pain had thirsted for
        too long

We watched the soul of you slowly dissipate into thin air,
Your eyes larger than life, the final windows soon to draw
        shut forever

We watched, ever faithful and true, believing that as we
        stood guard over you, Death would not dare plunge
        the final stake into your source

Many came to pay their final respects, to stand in front
        of your blank eyes. You saw them and wept within

But even in those quiet hours when no one came to see, you
        knew everyone was watching and waiting

Waiting for the end.

The end came in the silence of the dawn and as the light
        rose into the heavens,
You followed drawn away from the darkness of this world.

Heaven keeps no one waiting aren't you surprised?

Adieu

Crying that rumbles
in a mother's heart
filling with joy in seconds
nine long months,
Now it's an echo
in the hospital's nursery.

Where is your mother little one?

I bet she cries, when to her mind
comes the image of your big, brown eyes.
And, how she must yearn to hold
your warm little body next to her womb.

I just met you, and I'm in love
but doctors tell me of your condition...
failing kidneys and hypoplastic lungs,
the outlook for your recovery is...none.

As I let your little fingers
wrap around mine, I felt my heart drop
to the bottom of my soul
for a moment I felt like your mother
and wanted to take you home.

I seat you in my chair
not even knowing who you are.
Staring at the back of your head,
I visually part your hair
and try to see why
you despise me so.
Yet,
I gain nothing.
So I go deeper,
but just as I am about to commit to trepanation,
I come to face
and stand perched
precipitously
at the gape.
It isn't until this point
that everything becomes illuminated.
Jutting rocks and dirt;
rivulets and ridges.
The landscape and environs
which are yours.
Mine to peruse
and with bare-armed integrity
put back to order
the physical
and psychological
dents
which you have forsaken.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Body Electric is now in its eighth year and has seen an abundance of artistic talent from its contributors.  Unfortunately, in the past few years the number of entries other than poetry has fallen off.  We would like to encourage future participants to consider alternative media to express their artistic talents.  Prose, photography, drawings, and music are all accepted.

The strength of the poetry contained in this year's publication is self-evident.  From the prize-winning pieces to those that fill the intervening pages, there is an obvious artistic talent amoung those in the health professions.  We laud their courage in bringing forth the fruits of their emotions, and encourage others to follow.

We would like to thank Suzanne Poirier, PhD, who has tirelessly guided this publication through its many years, and Pam Greenspon, who provided invaluable assistance.  Also, our extreme gratitude is extended to Hy Muslin, MD, for judging the final selections.  Finally, we would like to thank Bernice Coleman for typing the final manuscript.

                    S. DAVID LO
                    College of Medicine 1994

Advisor:   SUZANNE POIRIER, PhD
                    Associate Professor of Literature and Medicine