Humidifier

—After Robert Pinsky

Defier of closed space, such as the head, opener

Of the sealed passageways, so that

Sunlight entering the nose can once again

Exit the ear, vaporizer, mist machine, whose

Soft hiss sounds like another human being

But less erratic, more stable, or, if not like a human being,

Carried by one, by my mother to the sick chamber

Of my childhood — as Freud said,

Why are you always sick, Louise? his cigar

Confusing mist with smoke, interfering

With healing—Embodied

Summoner of these ghosts, white plastic tub with your elegant

Clear tub, the water sanitized by boiling,

Sterile, odorless,

In my mother’s absence

Run by me, the one machine

I understand: what

Would life be if we could not buy

Objects to care for us

And bear them home, away from the druggists’ pity,

If we could not carry in our own arms

Alms, alchemy, to the safety of our bedrooms,

If there were no more

Sounds in the night, continuous

Hush, hush of warm steam, not

Like human breath though regular, if there were nothing in the world

More hopeful than the self,

Soothing it, wishing it well.