Download CDC podcasts to your desktop and portable music/video player for health information at your convenience and on the go. New to podcasting? See Podcast Help and RSS HelpA Performance Poem by Stacy Smallwood on the Occasion of Workers' Memorial Day
Date Released: 4/6/2007 To save the Podcast, right click the "Save this file" link below and select the "Save Target As..." option. Save This File (4MB) Download this transcript (64KB)A Performance Poem by Stacy Smallwood There is a gap Filled with ghosts. They cling to the walls of ravines, Wrap around branches, Refuse to fall in Until their stories have been told. I'' ve seen them. At night, in my sleep, They visit me. Inhabit me. Beg me to remember their faces When I awaken, Inscribe my palms with their accounts In hopes to help me hold on to them. There are so many. But some strike me harder, Like sledge hammers to brittle bone, Won'' t let me forget the impact. Like the nurse whose face Was deep and grooved, Sharp. Daily she traded blood for hope and Balanced the lives of untold millions On the tip of a needle. Without fear she wielded the hollow-bores Like swords, Never thinking that the tip might kick back, Show its double edge, And pierce her delicate skin. It comes with the work, she says, That you gotta take some pokes To save a life. But this time the blood was tainted, Crawled into her streams and laced her With hepatitis C. As it multiplied inside her, She weakened and withered Before her family'' s eyes, Forced to trade out livers Like broken hearts For the rest of her life. I felt her, Like pinpricks in my side Tracing the outline of multiple incisions Made to replace her ailing organs, The strangers her body would not accept If not for prescriptions and prayers. And still she thinks of the lives She could have saved If not for the fragility of her own. She'' s still on this side, Although the poison in her blood Cuts at her daily, Reminds her of the daggers That float in her iron streams, Like the tears that stream down The next face. This one is harder. Craggy. Like it was chiseled on the side Of a Great Smoky Mountain, Dotted with Fraser fir trees And brush. For eleven years, He’d specialized in paving pathways For others he’d never know. Took pride in the pouring of concrete, Asphalt tops, Fleshing the roads that led From grade school to Grandma’s house, Wedding to honeymoon, Sunrise to sunset. Until October 25, 2000, When his forested features Were mowed down By a wayward SUV. It ran off the road And sideswiped him, Tossed him twenty feet to the north, Left him with multiple blunt force traumas And his family with the kindling Of a man who made a living Connecting people to their memories One mile at a time. But sometimes even distances Measured in feet Can be deadly. Like the eighth grader Whose face is like rose petals Plucked too soon. He was doing a man’s work, Building shelter from the elements That fall from the sky. As the sun blazed his back, He worked the nail gun and shingles With care and rhythm. 1-2-3. 1-2. 1-2-3. 1-2. Like the irregular heartbeat of youth That lets him know he’s growing into his adult self. I wonder if he felt like an eagle Working around that skylight, As the sun bent around its curves And found its way down inside. I wonder if he felt his shoulder blades bear wings As he nailed the scales of the roof Into place. But he must have flown too close To the sun that day, Become more Icarus than Daedalus, As gravity brought him crashing home Through the sky. He had never been taught how to fly. He had never been taught how not to fall. Now he is periwinkle petals pressed flat Inside the pages of my dreams, A haunting question that should never Have been asked. And they don’t stop there. They come to me more often than ever now. From the heights of skyscraper scaffolding To the depths of West Virginia coal mines, The fishing boats of Alaska And the trauma units of Houston hospitals. Recently, the faces have become darker, More brown and bronze, With tongues that sound like Oaxaca And San Salvador, Hair thick like ancient canopies That hold hardship like humidity On a hot summer day. And they are younger. Softer, smoother skin, Stronger eyes, Brighter smiles concealed too soon. They are patchwork On the insides of my eyelids, Pieces of a quilt That’s the size of any heart That’s ever taken pride in the Work of their hands, Broad as backs built and broken On construction sites, Deep as the bend of knees during lifting, Proud as bright orange and red signs That say “stop” and “slow” As the road from A to B is made smooth. They have come here now, Where our decisions and dollars mean life and death For the millions that take their places On the frontlines. Their voices surround us, Settle like dew into tireless palms, Urging us to keep going, Studying to show ourselves approved, That we may improve the lives of all men and women Who have ever been proud to make a living In their chosen field. We are now on the other side of their time, And they cling to these walls, Portraits of pain and suffering From hazards that should Never be considered occupational, They should be unacceptable. So let us stand inside the gap So many have fallen into, Project our faces to the world And turn their stories Into solutions: Strategies that will weave a web of safety, A net to protect those who labor From free-falling into fatality. No one should die while Trying to make a living. No one should have to die While trying to make A living.
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