Crescent, Oklahoma
(Will we live, someday, in a country with a Chelsea Manning Street?)
“I’m at a nursing home, in Crescent now,”
came Flo’s call, urgent. Her cancer had spread.
“Come see me please. I’m not going anywhere.”
We knew what that meant.
Crescent is out Highway 74, beyond
the Lake Hefner Expressway — beyond
the Big-roofed McMansions, where
Portland Avenue turns into a two lane country road.
The wind has teeth, the sky is heavy and grey.
Big rigs blow southwards by, buffeting the car.
The other bed is empty but not made.
“I would hug you, but I can’t. The doctors say I’ve got MRSA.”
Flo’s eyes are too bright.
The surgeries took all her humor. “Close the door.
I need to tell you something. My roommate died last night.
The staff is stealing. The nurse stole her shoes.
I pretended to be asleep. They’re stealing!”
“Well, you could report it…” and my voice trails off.
I remember where we are.
The cancer is in her lungs. She needs oxygen.
The machine gurgles. The wind rattles the windowpane.
This is Crescent. Everybody covers for each other.
The nurse could kill her, Flo could die
without oxygen, or too much morphine
and no one would ask.
The clouds darken outside. It is not yet four o’clock.
Flo is not yet sixty.
“Well, once you leave, you…” and my voice trails off.
In days or weeks, her spirit will leave her ruined body.
Her body will be covered in a white sheet
and wheeled into a van from the funeral home.
The bed will be empty. The truth
will be buried. The nurse will steal from others.
Well, I could report it after you…”
She cuts me off. “I’ll be gone. No time to think about that.”
This is Crescent.
When I was twelve, I read how Karen Silkwood
died here, run off Highway 74 by trucks.
She was a whistleblower at Kerr-McGee.
The plant was unsafe and leaking radioactivity.
They poisoned her with plutonium.
She was on her way to meet a reporter with a manila folder.
This is Crescent.
Everybody covers for each other.
The truth is buried somewhere.
The soil is radioactive. Secrecy hangs in the air.
Somewhere, in 2008, Specialist Manning analyzes the data.
She wants to find the patterns,
she wants to uncover the truth,
she only wants to make sure the troops get home safely.
This is Crescent. Manning grew up in this town
she is allergic to secrets — evil was in the air.
The soil is radioactive, disregard for human life
is like plutonium for Manning.
The truth is radioactive.
Manning is a whistleblower.
She had a thumb drive, not a manila folder.
A warrior is willing to die for
something beyond herself. They took
Manning’s shoes. They gave her a white sheet
to wrap her body in. They want to bury her alive.
They want to kill the truth.
“Let’s get to business,” said Flo.
She rummages in a bag, gives me a paper. She snorts.
“Here’s the truth: I could have died at home.
This loving family you thought you saw… all for show.
Every day my stepson stood over me, going on
about the holdings, the oil and gas.
He can’t wait for me to die; he wants them.
They are meant for my grandbabies.” Her voice shakes.
“I was afraid he would drug me,
make me sign it away.
My will,” her eyes shone. “Deliver this.
This is goodbye, my friend. You may mean
to come back, but I’m dying.”
Flo’s will is on my passenger seat, in a manila folder.
I pass the culvert where Karen Silkwood’s car
was crushed from behind. There is no marker.
There is no street named for Karen Silkwood.
Will we live in a country someday, I wonder
where there is a street named for Chelsea Manning?
In the freezing February rain,
Flo was buried with the truth. Relatives she despised
were all so very polite.
