Nightshift at the ER

Sean Thomas Dougherty

The shift begins with the scent of blood.

A man arrives with a wound that won’t close. Light

flickers in the hallway like a dying bulb. His name

is whispered by the nurse who’s forgotten sleep.

She’s been here twelve hours, humming a song

to keep the ghosts away. There’s always a song.

The janitor mops the floor, singing a song

his mother taught him after her last blood

test. He says she died in this wing. Sleep

never comes easy when you’ve seen the light

leave someone’s eyes. He doesn’t say her name

anymore. It hurts too much to speak her name.

The doctor calls for vitals, repeats the name

of a child in trauma. Someone hums a song

in the breakroom, trying not to weep. Light

spills from the vending machine. Blood

pressure spikes. The monitor beeps. Sleep

is a myth here. No one believes in sleep.

Outside, the city pretends to sleep.

Inside, we stitch the broken, call their name

when they forget it. We clean the blood

from their mouths, their sheets. We sing a song

to the dying, hold their hands. The light

is harsh, but it’s all we have. We live in light.