Maya C. Popa

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They Are Building a Hospital

On the field outside my home, a field 
hospital, in an actual field, the great American 
Oak on one end, the Tupelo on the other. 
They have laid white tarp over the boggy grass 
and raised a series of insulated tents.
It has blossomed overnight like a dark circus,
machines to purify and dehumidify the air,
cots like dollhouse furniture and intricate 
machines to keep alive those whose bodies 
are resigned to leaving. An orchestra 
of discipline and calculated faith, 
of power chords and outlets maneuvered  
around trees, of hoping rain holds
and spring reads the room: the human beings
are desperate. They have built a hospital 
where, in other days, I walked my dog, 
counting no blessing but the one I chased, 
who startled strangers on blankets 
before stretching on the grass. How happy
I was not knowing how happy, walking 
the path along the field’s perimeter, 
watching the sky flare its oranges and pinks, 
reflect a cool purple off the leaves. 
Idling in goodness, letting the mind loose 
over the life let it. I thought forever, 
did not think, for so much of gladness 
was thoughtlessness. Now I mourn 
the hours from the safety of my health, 
stand a little lost at what proceeds 
the mourning. They are building a hospital—
the whir of engines stirs the animals,
a melody, a dirge the robins sing.

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MAYA C. POPA is the author of American Faith (Sarabande 2019) and Poetry Reviews Editor of Publishers Weekly. Her pamphlet Dear Life is forthcoming with Smith|Doorstop in 2022. She is a PhD candidate at Goldsmiths writing on wonder in poetry.