The kid walks up to the fence.
He is bleeding from his leg
and arm and face and chest.
Imagine what looks like hoof-
prints of blood splattered all
over, almost comical; there’s no
need for that much blood.
I’m just off break. I’m union.
We get two breaks per shift.
I sleep in the back of my car.
It’s my time. I can do whatever
I want for those fifteen
minutes. My hair sticks up.
He says he needs help. I go
to dial 911 and he says, Ain’t
you 911? No, I’m not a cop,
I say, I’m an EMT. Doesn’t
that stand for medical some-–
thing? I tell him I’m an EMT
for the factory. I can’t climb
over the fence. He says he’ll
climb over the fence. I tell him
no, that I have to call the cops
if he does that. I feel like an
idiot. He tries to climb but
he’s too cut up, too hurt. I
ask what happened. I see
a kid behind him, lying there.
What happened? I ask. Just
playin’ around. I’ve seen
patients with this much blood
before. We have workers
whose arms get caught in
the machinery. They get
degloved and eviscerated,
avulsions. I get them too.
A drunk employee punched
me in the cheek before,
the eye really, the cosmos
I see permanently if I close it.
I tell the kid that he’s gotta stay
on his side of the fence. I have
to stay on mine. He tells me
I’ll burn in hell. The factory
behind me pours smoke out
like it’s fighting to own the sky.
I ask where he’s bleeding
the most. He says he doesn’t
know. I say it again, angry.
He tells me his leg. I tell him
to put pressure on it, to not
take the pressure off. I tell him
to put it above his heart. He says
he can’t, it’s his leg. I tell him
to figure it out. How do you get
your leg above your heart? He lies
down. He holds his leg. The kid
in the background starts holding
his own arm. They’re controlling
the blood. I get down on the ground
and I look up at the sky too.
from Poetry Northwest 13.1 Summer & Fall 2018More by Ron Riekki from the library
Copyright © Ron Riekki
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.