1 All of us came in Doctor Kerlin's bag. He'd arrive with it, disappear to the room And by the time he'd reappear to wash Those nosy, rosy, big, soft hands of his In the scullery basin, its lined insides (The colour of a spaniel's inside lug) Were empty for all to see, the trap-sprung mouth Unsnibbed and gaping wide. Then like a hypnotist Unwinding us, he'd wind the instruments Back into their lining, tie the cloth Like an apron round itself, Darken the door and leave With the bag in his hand, a plump ark by the keel ... Until the next time came and in he'd come In his fur-lined collar that was also spaniel-coloured And go stooping up to the room again, a whiff Of disinfectant, a Dutch interior gleam Of waistcoat satin and highlights on the forceps. Getting the water ready, that was next— Not plumping hot, and not lukewarm, but soft, Sud-luscious, saved for him from the rain-butt And savoured by him afterwards, all thanks Denied as he towelled hard and fast, Then held his arms out suddenly behind him To be squired and silk-lined into the camel coat. At which point he once turned his eyes upon me, Hyperborean, beyond-the-north-wind blue, Two peepholes to the locked room I saw into Every time his name was mentioned, skimmed Milk and ice, swabbed porcelain, the white And chill of tiles, steel hooks, chrome surgery tools And blood dreeps in the sawdust where it thickened At the foot of each cold wall. And overhead The little, pendent, teat-hued infant parts Strung neatly from a line up near the ceiling— A toe, a foot and shin, an arm, a cock A bit like the rosebud in his buttonhole. 2 Poeta doctus Peter Levi says Sanctuaries of Asclepius (called asclepions) Were the equivalent of hospitals In ancient Greece. Or of shrines like Lourdes, Says poeta doctus Graves. Or of the cure By poetry that cannot be coerced, Say I, who realized at Epidaurus That the whole place was a sanatorium With theatre and gymnasium and baths, A site of incubation, where "incubation" Was technical and ritual, meaning sleep When epiphany occurred and you met the god ... Hatless, groggy, shadowing myself As the thurifer I was in an open air procession In Lourdes in '56 When I nearly fainted from the heat and fumes, Again I nearly fainted as I bent To pull a bunch of grass and hallucinated Doctor Kerlin at the steamed-up glass Of our scullery window, starting in to draw With his large pink index finger dot-faced men With button-spots in a straight line down their fronts And women with dot breasts, giving them all A set of droopy sausage-arms and legs That soon began to run. And then as he dipped and laved In the generous suds again, miraculum: The baby bits all came together swimming Into his soapy big hygienic hands And I myself came to, blinded with sweat, Blinking and shaky in the windless light. III Bits of the grass I pulled I posted off To one going into chemotherapy And one who had come through. I didn't want To leave the place or link up with the others. It was mid-day, mid-May, pre-tourist sunlight In the precincts of the god, The very site of the temple of Asclepius. I wanted nothing more than to lie down Under hogweed, under seeded grass And to be visited in the very eye of the day By Hygeia, his daughter, her name still clarifying The haven of light she was, the undarkening door. IV The room I came from and the rest of us all came from Stays pure reality where I stand alone, Standing the passage of time, and she's asleep In sheets put on for the doctor, wedding presents That showed up again and again, bridal And usual and useful at births and deaths. Me at the bedside, incubating for real, Peering, appearing to her as she closes And opens her eyes, then lapses back Into a faraway smile whose precinct of vision I would enter every time, to assist and be asked In that hoarsened whisper of triumph, "And what do you think Of the new wee baby the doctor brought for us all When I was asleep?"