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poems KL


By, D. Simondet

I’m lying here with such a view

To see all within my purview

The techs are moving about

With hardly nary a shout.


They weigh you and measure

Your pressure and weight

You know it’s the right estimate.


Needles are placed to ease the flow

To continue the life we once knew

And soon we will have life anew.

Free of liquid, germs and brew.


The techs know how to do it

Their talent shows every day

You might even say: “that’s the way”


They are beautiful people if you must know

Capable, trained and experts in their field

Their goal is renewing life anew.

And I am very grateful I can take part

In this department where life is given

Just so I could keep on living.


Of My Peritoneal Dialysis Machine

By Daniel Marlin


When the clock of your kidneys

ran down, your appetite gone,

the dinner before

untouched, you noticed my hesitation to begin the meal,

smiled across the table,



“Eat darling, eat for both of us.”


I think of you, mother,

as I listen

to this machine,

which could have

cleansed the darkness of fatigue

beneath your eyes,

spared you violent

morning heaves

fifty years ago.


Its’ tiny motherboard brain

has no code for fear or dignity,

gratitude or pity.

It does not know my name

as it fills me from five liter bags,

then drains through winding tubes,

bearing away

the toxins in my blood.


Sometimes it’s noise,

leading into sleep,

reminds of voyages,

the earnest rumble of sturdy vessels

which delivered my limbs

through wind and time.

Its low ratatatat,

like ropes whipped into the ferry’s mast

on Japan’s Inland Sea,

headed to Oshima island,

to the farmhouse

where my wife was born.


Each night, the strange music;

a gentle crinkling,

the great sighs, like a bus braking,

the hum, steady and dogged,

vibrating like the engine beneath my bunk

on the black diamond freighter,

plowing swells of the North Atlantic

--as I escaped America at war,



Listen to the bag sucked dry –

hiss of an enraged raccoon;

and to the motor grown suddenly still –

silence of a hummingbird

paused from its labor

at the tip of a branch.


I, who carry

your broken gene, mother,

that falling star

in the firmament of cells,

savor, for both of us, the gift

of resurrection by machine.


Date Reviewed: 02-16-2016