Sophia Görgens
The first mistake I made
was leaving my ID card home
in the pocket of my fleece–
the one with a zipper that broke
in Namibia and a hole stabbed
by a pencil during finals, worn
deep with worry and time.
Clyde Partin
The atypical place he wore his beeper
Warranted him a cameo appearance
In an essay I once wrote on pagers
However,
On this spring morning,
He was impeding my progress
As he sauntered across the intersection
In intimate communion with
William Toms
Our train starts to move slowly down well-traveled tracks. Sunny out,
clouds in the distance. We pick up speed.
We offer obligatory greetings,
courtesy How you feelings?
We both know why she’s here
we defer that talk
as if deferring for a
Jack Coulehan
I eavesdrop on the cells in your brain,
which are trying to bust out of a prison
surrounded by broken connections.
They make an almost inaudible hum
beneath mechanical whooshes and pings
surrounding your hospital bed. I listen
while sitting with
Marilyn Hammick
Arthur stops close to where we sit waiting
for the person you call the activities lady
to serve us drinks and biscuits.
He moves his wheelchair with slippered feet,
so we become another group.
You introduce me, This is my sister,
Alan Harris
after my father had his stroke
we never spoke again
but that didn’t stop us
from reading each other’s faces
recognizing the punctuated pauses
periods and question marks
etched in eyes, sighs and sad smiles
It took both hands to
Daniel Becker
During the service, after the mensch acclamation
and before the sermon-sized metaphor
that started with a tree then lost me
a comrade from the morning shift at college–
they shared a lecture hall and the appreciation
that all sleepy students are sleepy
Howard Stein
in memory of Ashley Montagu, Touching: The Human Significance of the Skin (1986)
the yearning
to be touched
by hands that mean it
by hands that want to touch
the longing for hands
to release the skin
from solitary confinement
Ronald Lands
His hand-carved pipes still lean
in their rack like a row of saxophones
and fill the room with memories
of black vinyl records, Glenn Miller’s band
playing “Chattanooga Choo Choo,”
a kitchen match scratched
across the bottom of his shoe
Judson Scruton
Expectant, bound, I wait
for the robotic arm
to deliver
intense radiation
to cancerous prostate.
The probing eye of the radial arm
searches for my marked gland
to the soundtrack of my choosing–
gentle waves, then pounding surf.
Where am I? What am I?
Muriel Murch
I leave the bed softly
so as not to rouse you
and am in the bathroom before I remember
you are not here.
And yet.
It is the sound of your breathing
sung from memory
by the wind in the
Amy Odom
Like an old Atari video game I attack the folders in my inbox
Successfully devouring each power pellet placed in my path
Gulp, gulp.
Faster, faster.
Pushing to the finish line where husband and kids are waiting.
I am anxious to hear
© 2024 Pulse - Voices from the Heart of Medicine, Inc. All rights reserved.
