January 22, 2024

Rachel Mallalieu

SURRENDER

Patients crowd my dreams 
demanding to be seen 
and saved.
 
When I work, they clog 
the waiting room and die 
in hallways.
 
At the beginning of the pandemic, 
we began observing a moment 
of silence each time someone died. 
 
I usually placed my hand
upon their shoulders
and thought this was a life
 
Last week, when a woman’s heart
stopped outside of CAT scan, 
a nurse straddled
 
the gurney and started pumping
her chest. It didn’t work. 
Well shit, the nurse said, 
 
now I’m all sweaty.
No one stopped or bowed 
their head. 
 
Today, in the winter woods, 
only the deer’s split 
tracks mar the mud-strewn path. 
 
The trees sway with the knife-
edged wind and creak
like rusted hinges. 
 
Around the bend, two swans 
paddle in a January pond.
The dog gallops ahead—
 
where the boulder bears a coat
of moss—his tail a white flag 
waving surrender. 
 

from Rattle #82, Winter 2023

__________

Rachel Mallalieu: “As an emergency physician, I am forever hoping for things to go back to ‘the way they were.’ The pandemic, however, exposed and exacerbated longstanding issues such as emergency room boarding and the lack of a medical safety net for many. Now we are also severely understaffed. Many days, we do not have the nurses and techs needed to safely staff an ER. Medical staff is burning out at alarming rates and patients are suffering. I don’t know the answer, but something has to give.” (web)

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May 29, 2022

Rachel Mallalieu

I TELL MY SON TO COVER HIMSELF IN SOMEONE ELSE’S BLOOD

Last night, I told my son
that if he sees a shooter coming, he needs to
hide in a file cabinet or underneath
a covered table.
If he’s in the bathroom, he should
stand on the toilet and lock the stall door.
If there’s nowhere to go,
I asked him to paint
himself with someone else’s
blood and play
dead.
Give him a break my husband murmured.
Let him relax a bit.
Simon needed extra prayers
at bedtime.
 
Say my name out loud.
Tell God to keep me safe, or at least
don’t let him come while I’m in art
class. During shooter drills,
my teacher forgot to lock
the door and the window is too big
to cover with paper.
 
I smoothed the circles under
his eyes while I begged God
to keep him here, with me.
 
Today, the forest is a cathedral
and cedar trees waft incense.
The blossoms are a riotous crowd
—tulip poplars, mountain laurel,
dogwoods and wisteria.
 
The “About Me” poster outside
Simon’s fourth grade
classroom says he loves our dog
Theo and tacos.
His favorite color is green.
He wants to be a doctor.
 
The trees hush the sirens
and only the flowers hear the
whispered coda to my prayer.
 
If he comes, God, and Simon
can’t hide, please
 
please God,
 
let me be there too.
 
The blooms, mute gods, bend
their faces toward my cries
 
and promise
nothing.
 

from Poets Respond
May 29, 2022

__________

Rachel Mallalieu: “I send five children to school each day. I have a fourth grade son. I cannot stop weeping. I cannot stem my rage.” (web)

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February 9, 2022

Rachel Mallalieu

19th NERVOUS BREAKDOWN

I had this friend whose mother
had her 19th nervous breakdown
the year the Stones released
“19th Nervous Breakdown,” and let
me tell you, that shit was funny when we
were thirteen. We always knew his mom
was headed for a hospital stay
when instead of offering us 
cookies, she accused him of wanting
sex with his grandma.

This guy had a big brother who also 
was not right in the head, and 
he checked himself into the loony
bin and stayed six weeks.
He left when they kicked him out and 
said he owed five thousand bucks.
The brother did not take that well and wept
and screamed; we all
told him to shut up and get a grip.
Instead, he went to the basement and put
a shotgun into his mouth.
No one knew what happened until 
the hound dog dropped 
a piece of his skull under
the kitchen table.

This friend was a good son.
We all got married but he still
lived with his dad.
Each night, they shared a pack of 
cigarettes and ate their frozen 
dinners on card tables, but
those cigarettes came hard.
His pop’s lungs failed and he died quick.
Then he shared his dinner with the dog 
and tried to quit smoking.

I know the kind of guy you’re imagining—
long stringy hair and the 
crooked teeth he would hide
behind his hand if he smiled. 
You wouldn’t be wrong.
But he also kept track of birthdays,
sent money to his deadbeat younger
brother and kept a list of questions 
he wanted to ask me in a file labeled 
with my name.

One day he asked me if a person
went straight to Hell if he killed
himself. I said of course not, but
wondered if he was thinking about it.
He mumbled no, he was too 
chickenshit, and promised to call me 
if that changed.

You see where this is heading.
He lost his job, his health insurance,
and had a fight with his younger brother.
He went to the funeral home, paid for a casket
and asked that no obituary be published.
He cleaned his house, wrote his will and slipped
the rope around his neck.
He did not call.

It was days before anyone found him.
But appreciating a dog’s proclivities,
he had already placed the animal in a shelter.

from Rattle #74, Winter 2021

__________

Rachel Mallalieu: “I’m an emergency physician and mother of five. I write poetry to survive both!”

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August 8, 2021

Rachel Mallalieu

DELTA

You remember what it was like
in the early days—

when restaurants sent food
and churches dropped off

care packages
Everyone said thank you

& sometimes clapped
and even when the waves

of patients crashed
into your emergency room,

you were able to breathe
Now, you’re so weary,

that when it begins again,
you can hardly muster

energy to care as
your vaccine antibodies

engage in combat with
the squadron of medications

you consume in order to control
your autoimmune disease &

you hope the antibodies win
because you’re placing

breathing tubes
into eager airways again &

when your friends
don’t get vaccinated,

you take it personally & you
know this isn’t about you,

but you’re spent, nothing’s
left & you don’t think

you can watch
people die alone again

while you hold their iPhones as
they gasp good bye

You stop kissing your children
for a little while & you also

update your will
But on your days off,

you take long hikes and
walk the ridge

where butterflies flit
among the milkweed blossoms

You kneel beside a monarch
& pray that your vaccine holds

as you rest in the shadow
of its stained glass wings

from Poets Respond
August 8, 2021

__________

Rachel Mallalieu: “I am an emergency physician who’s been on the front lines of the Covid battle for 18 months. I also developed an autoimmune illness this year, which makes every Covid encounter feel even more dangerous. As spring gave way to summer, it felt like we had turned a corner. I went weeks without seeing cases in my ER. My teen children were vaccinated, and my younger kids went to camp. Suddenly, my ER has multiple Covid patients every shift again. They’re younger, sicker, and some are dying. It is exhausting to be in this battle; we finally have the weapon with which to fight, and some refuse that weapon. These days, I just try to do right by my patients and take care of myself and my family when I’m off.”

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June 23, 2020

Rachel Mallalieu

JUNE 2020

You took them hiking today
where the river smells green
the way the Schuylkill smelled when
you ran beside it in med school
before you married,
before you bore the boys and
adopted a girl—a brown skinned child
who suddenly wore your pale name,
back when the only dead body you’d touched was
the one you dissected in anatomy lab

Before you intubated the woman already
four hours dead when her husband
carried her into the waiting room
her eyes wouldn’t close but you
gave her the benefit of the doubt
and when you moved her
tongue aside you felt the chill of it
through two sets of gloves
Before a man’s tears collected in the
pools of his temples when you
told him he needed the ventilator and
all you could do to comfort him
was stroke his hair and tell him you would pray
Before your life became masks & goggles
& gowns & hair nets & fear
which settled in your throat

Before the country convulsed and some
of your friends didn’t understand why
though you knew it could be your daughter
under that knee someday
And you needed to write so you
tried to write about a Black
cemetery in 1858 which advertised
undulating hills and tree canopied paths
where lawyers and Civil War veterans
would rest together beneath the willows
But when the land became valuable,
they quietly razed the graveyard
and built a dollar store
(only history would tolerate such a cheap metaphor)
The bodies were discovered
beneath the parking lot last year and
you imagined the dust of
pulverized bones riding
the wind like seeds and landing in soil
made rich with blood

These words are slick and slippery things like
the minnows which darted between
your fingers in the lake
behind your childhood home
And while you construct the
story you think she needs,
those seeds have already taken root
in your daughter’s wild heart
Tonight, the river scents her hair as she
leaps into the pool, silhouetted
against the sun’s dying embers,
arms flung wide as if to say,
This too belongs to me

from Poets Respond
June 23, 2020

__________

Rachel Mallalieu: “Because I am an emergency physician, 2020 has already been one of the most challenging and difficult years of my career. I am also the adoptive mother of a Black child, and while I am encouraged that the United States is grappling with the brutal realities of systemic racism, there is still so much work to be done. But I have hope.”

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