In the Cardiac ICU I Saw

trash bins like giant anthropomorphic rats
with rakish kerchiefs and stevedore caps,
like a Rubbermaid/Pixar On the Waterfront,

rubber glove boxes (small to extra large) 
as Keith Richards in a hoodie,
lighting a cigarette in the wind—or Anaïs Nin,

antibiotic gel dispenser and paper towels
transformed into two women with Cubist brow, 
but each with her proper nose, frontal and profile,

and lurking in the wood-grain door, Jehovah
kissing an evil troll while hot and cold faucet
antlers spread out into a Kohler moose.

Cedar Waxwings from My Window

From where I sit, cedar waxwings rule;
drunk on berries, they occupy the tree,
poop on our Subaru below,
then rise together and depart.

They thrust a berry beak to beak until
each member of the flock gets theirs.
But were those who slammed into
our window leaving tufted smears

members of a rebel cadre? or tipsy
tourists who, like Rick’s bar patrons,
came for the waters, misinformed?
Maybe dirty windows would warn them?

Though it’s probably not as binary 
as it seems, for them: here / gone
—more a continuous exhilarating
swoop punctuated by the taste of fruit.

DIANE K. MARTIN

Diane K. Martin lives in western Sonoma County, California. Her poems have recently appeared in American Poetry Review, Diode, Field, Laurel Review, Plume, Rhino, River Styx, and many other journals. Diane’s first collection, Conjugated Visits, was published by Dream Horse Press. Her second, Hue & Cry, was published by MadHat Press in March 2020.