Sitting before me
I measure his scars and record the beatings
He is broken
Not just his teeth and back, his will is shattered
I ask his plans should he be granted asylum
He has none
COVID wards 2020-2021
For the sake of the present / let’s just admit that thigh-deep mud & poison gas & running into machine gun fire / still belong to us all the glass-eyed / survivors who said sundown was almost worse than morning slaughters
It has recently come to your attention that asteroid 2022 AP7 is headed towards the earth. ◙ Despite your attempts at distraction, your mind repeatedly imagines the collision. ◙ Experts call 2022 AP7 a planet killer–then say not to worry as it could be many generations before this is a
A long day makes me want to get home, and I’ll have
to explain, again, why I’m late to pick up the kids. The merge
onto the Expressway slows. At least the drivers stay patient,
taking turns. We keep stuttering forward until I see the cause
First the catheter, slimmest filament,
slid in by expert hands
The next needle delivers
a pillowy somnolence
your russet-furred rabbit face falling
gently into my cradling palm
Then the final dose,
doctor calculated for your now boney, bunny frame
Just beyond the parking lot,
my husband chases
our daughter through
the trails of the Rouge Valley,
as they await a break between
my cases—to visit the “hopstipal”
where she was born, where
I still work on weekends.
I catch the train home after a night shift
my tired eyes take in the harbor view
a child chirps announcements in my ear
sweet mimicry doors closing please stand clear
last night a woman died or tried at least
her heart a panicked quivering
R said when he heard the words
aggressive prostate cancer,
he heard location, containment, intruder
confined within hard boundaries,
not parsing each loaded syllable
as its own explosive detail
capable of spreading.
Like a rose
The nurse says
Of this new, unexpected opening into my body,
Fastening the pouch with expert hands
Deep red
Inside out
My hands tremble as I empty my
lunch of meatloaf and mashed potatoes
Rendered brown murky liquid
Into
My mother doesn’t think she’s dying,
but she’s in the ER for the third time
in less than three months while
I’m 2,500 miles away on an island
in the middle of the sea, my sister
sitting with our shrinking mother
Everyone is nice to me. First night
through morphine I hear nurses saying
they’ll keep me on the surgical floor,
refuse to send me to the cancer unit.
They know I’m healthy, rich with lifeblood–
why view the damage this disease could do?
This morning a volcano
turned back into a neck,
simply a neck.
Decades after a tiny
muscle knot had wandered
or was pushed up
under the skull’s tight base,
this morning it emerged,
brimming with thanks.
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