photo credit: guruXOOX/iStock

About This Poem:

• This poem first appeared in Juked in May 2021.
• The inspiration for this poem was two-fold. Part of it came from a freewrite about the white noise machines installed at my clinic. The other part came from a comment by the pediatrician in our clinic. Children in all four of his treatment rooms were crying as he stepped out into the hall, smiling. “Do you like our symphony?” he asked.
• I surprised myself by what happened when I combined these two ideas. You can read about collisions of ideas here.

White Noise

My red-haired nurse carries a white box
that trails an electrical cord. “I have to
ask your opinion,” she says. “Which one

of these settings do you like? Patients are
complaining about the crying kids next
door in Peds.” I don’t like any of them.

Not the white one, not the ocean. My brain
understands that one sound drowns out
another, but my body doesn’t. I feel my gut

twist when the decibels go up. The loudness
is a hissed monotone. I go into the echoing
room where the new machine is installed.

I feel off-balance but I adjust, as I do when
I hear a child crying. I mention the new sound
to the patients. One thinks it’s a ventilation fan.

Another doesn’t hear anything at all.
I notice the constant exhalation. I take a long
breath in. I’m surprised people need

to drown out the symphony of children. I follow
the quality, tone, cadence, and pitch of the wails.
Why don’t others immerse themselves

in these waves? My eardrums vibrate
with the songs of the betrayed. The crying
has benefit. The children are soothed.

The noise won’t go on forever even
when it’s ratcheting up. It’ll come
to a gasping, shuddering end.