01/27/2026
It's a wintry Poetry Tuesday. I hope wherever you find yourself today, you're safe & cozy.
For months, my therapy clients & I have been sitting with the concept of moral injury. Moral injury is a term from the nursing literature that describes the shame, guilt, & even rage we feel when we must live or work in an environment that conflicts with our moral compass. When we have a job to do, & we can't do it in a way that aligns with our values. When we can't change immoral systems or power structures & must continue to exist within them.
Today, I am sharing a poem my dear friend, Virginia LeBaron, wrote on the theme of moral injury. Virginia is a nurse-poet-professor at UVA. I also share it in honor of Alex Pretti, the ICU nurse who was killed by federal agents in Minneapolis.
Patients I Cannot Forget: The Man in the ICU
My stepsons want to know
on a lazy Sunday morning what is the worst thing
I’ve seen. The worst thing, they repeat
as if I am unsure, as if I will deny them
what is always perched precariously
on the crumbling cliff
of my memory. I nudge
around the periphery.
Ah, there are so many sad things…
This is unacceptable. They are greedy
for the details, want to run their long fingers through it, crush it
like grapes in their hands now bigger than ours.
No! Tell us the worst thing.
Their Dad nods, tops off my coffee, runs the disposal.
Well, there was a man in the ICU. They lean forward
backs separating from the couch, bare feet
pressed flat against the hard wood floor.
He had melanoma. He belonged to another nurse.
But the ward was open, you saw everything
like a pig sliced open, freshly slaughtered. Like a magic trick multiplied
in a room full of mirrors.
I didn’t usually work in the ICU, they were short-staffed.
I had never seen suffering covered by so many tubes.
It looked like someone had poured hot asphalt over his body, all the way
from his neck to his groin. It was black and lumpy and bleeding. Like a volcano erupted onto his chest.
They are astounded that cancer could push through a body
so completely, take over both the outside, and the inside.
But he was really sedated, right? He couldn’t feel anything. Right? They decide
that must be the case and look up at me with earnest eyes, like a dog
before it is kicked. I lie
Yes, yes, he was sedated. I have let them down
with the dilution. The verdict:
That’s not that bad. The axis
bends back, righting itself. My husband gets up for a second
cup of coffee. The mail slides through the slot in the front door.
The dog barks as it fans out across the floor, like it is the first time.
The boys want waffles.
Perhaps love lies in the shadows
we know to hold inside: he was tied to the bed rails
in soft white cuffs circling his wrists and ankles. For 12 hours
I watched him pull against them, writhing, screaming –
loudly at first and then more softly as he tired –
calling us what we were: demons, tormenters
unholy bi***es
holding him to this earth.
📸 Garrett Peterson
Published in: https://www.moralinjurypoetry.com/2025/03/28/lebaron/
