Michael Levan
is how he buckles the boy and the girl / into the backseat. Is how he does the same for her. / Is how he listens to his phone's GPS as it navigates / them to a place they've never been. Is how he remembers / a colleague's story of his wife who works at this hospital / they're heading to and how she gave CPR to an Army vet / on the sidewalk below the sixth-floor window / he jumped from. Is how he lets her out / at the hospital entrance. Is how he rushes to park / the car, how he runs to her, both the boy and girl in his arms, / because he does not want to lose her / to whatever room they'll take her to yet, not without saying, / I love you and Goodnight and anything else that might hold her. / Is how he walks her to the front desk to be checked / in. Is how he sits her and their children down in the lobby / as two guards stand cheerlessly by the exit. Is how he breaks / when the desk attendant eyes him and then the boy and girl and says, / They'll take care of her, trust me. They helped me after this— / the man points to where his left arm should be— / and everything else that came with being in combat. / Is how he crumbles when he seats her in a wheelchair / and she grabs his arm and says, Wait, wait, don't / make me go! This is a mistake. Please. Please! / and still he pushes her on. Is how he watches her be taken away, / waits until the door closes, and knows she is gone.