Come Passion

I perform a case study on myself
to see where my lack of compassion
drops anchor from the vessels
portholing my heart cabin.

I am numbing like an addict.
My vices drowned, internal caves:
nerve delay and wave turmoil bobbing
beneath the driftwood debris of me.

Passion wells, a misdirected squall,
and what the tide drags to shore
is a drenched self I cagily abhor
crawling away from beached scrutiny.

I must come into passion: a survival
mechanism actuating the depth charges
my submarined conscious holds hostage—
even when I feel like a deserted island.

Responding to an Emergency

My brow is fog and wet pavement. Lights and sirens
churning, beadlets on the windshield haltingly
gyrating like amoeba under microscope. The street
a fractured arm warp-speeding toward dark horizon.
I concentrate on the undistorted, spine-white line.
Sidewalks freeze-frame silhouettes of homeless
in various positions of inhuman sleep: upright on
benches, huddled under alcoves; giant anthill mounds
of sleeping bag and shopping cart debris. I see head-
lamps and signals at intersections of red, yellow,
green. I blow past whatever color blinks ahead of me.
Driving Code 3, the ambulance heavy as a boulder
gaining speed down sloping peak—a tangible burden
I can control until I stop and smell brakes smoking.
After the engine cools, I clock out home alone in
repercussion: shrieking spirits, the carrion inside me.

so what is the WORST THING you have ever seen?

People always ask paramedics this question.
We ribcage our hearts, seize a quick breath.

Dare we describe gristle and gore
from gnarly accidents? The mad rush
to extricate with Jaws of Life? Sawing
roofs open, breaking windows
to reach overripe, flesh-burst skin?

Dare we mention children struck head-on
by cars, drowned in pools,
found stiff in SIDS or stillborn?

Like any job, it’s a daily grind:
gurney van transfers, elderly falls,
homeless crowding sidewalks
with their stenches.

Medics are secondhand pawns of time,
never getting a turn to play first—
uninvited guests meant to observe
until emergency occurs.

The worst thing is
paperwork and office politics.

The worst thing is
the accumulation that creeps
inexorable like ocean tide
hollowing cliffs until collapse.

Bitterness and burnout proliferate.
In line at a café, the looky-loos ask,
I hope it’s not too busy today?

We smile and nod,
eyeballing our radios nervously
like they jinxed us.

The worst thing is
leftover blood clotting the floor—
so much to clean up
sometimes it makes us wonder
if a few of those puddles belong to us.

Joe Amaral’s first poetry collection “The Street Medic” won the 2018 Palooka Press Chapbook Contest. His writing has appeared in 3Elements Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, New Verse News, Poets Reading the News, Rise Up Review, River Heron Review and The Night Heron Barks. Joe works 24-hour shifts as a paramedic on the California central coast. You can find him at jadetree.org