NIGHT SHIFT

Gradually, as the sun goes down,
the night staff clock in for duty.
Punctually the sister too, formally attired
in her uniform, wearing red epaulettes –
emblem of her authority – signs herself in
for the night shift. She smiles;
it’s what’s expected of senior personnel.

Peeks into the private ward. All going well?
she asks, endearingly unconcerned. I’m sorry,
but the nightcap will have to wait for now,
we’re detoxing you. Ticks off an item.

Shortly thereafter, pushing a trolley,
she brings medication, records the status
of the drip, maternally gesturing: Swallow it
now, you oaf; down the passage there are eight
or so more awaiting my ministrations –

and so on the night sea her patients drift away,
each in turn chemically anaesthetized
and intravenously cleansed of – snugly
taken care of for six hours at least.

Until the outside morning light licks at
the dawn’s grey membrane,
waking those asleep to feel once more
the throbbing of their wounds and be aware
of the most dreadful of horrors
waiting out there.

NAGSKOF

NAGSKOF

Gestadig soos die son bedags versink,
kom nagpersoneel hul aanmeld vir diens.
Stiptelik ook die suster, formeel gevat
in uniform, met rooi epoulette toegerus –
embleem van haar gesag – teken sy
haar vir die nagskof aan. Sy glimlag;
dit word van senior personeel verwag.

Loer by die privaat saal in. Alles wel?
vra sy innemend onbesorg. Sorrie jong,
die skemerdop sal eers moet wag,
ons detox nou. Tik ‘n regmerkie aan.

Kort daarna sal sy ‘n trollie begelei
wat medikasie bring, die drup se stand
aanstip en moederlik wys: Sluk dit tog,
ou drommel; daar’s nog ‘n stuk of agt
wat hier in die gang op my wag -

so dryf haar pasiënte ‘n stil nagsee in,
een na die ander chemies verdoof
en binne-aars gereinig van – knus
versorg vir minstens ses uur lank.

Tot die oggendlig buite begin lek
aan die skemer se grys membraan,
wat die slapendes wek om hul wonde
opnuut te voel klop en attent te maak
op die allerverskriklikste gruwels
wat daar buite wag.