Joanne M. Clarkson
          For LS
Assume pain, I tell them, the young, the
minimum-waged, those who work the midnight
shift with no chance for stars. We lean
over the bed of a 93-year-old man with advanced
Doug HesterÂ
Exhalations materialize in the dark as I walk
from the empty parking deck. I brew coffee,
then print a list–our census is up to thirty.
I grab my coat and start seeing patients:
the gastric bypasses, the nine ex-laps,
the psychotic panniculectomy patient,
Allie Gips
tucked into the chaos of the emergency department
is a single room with stirrups, a floor spackled with blood,
& a woman whose face betrays nothing.
the bodies of all those i have touched who have then
died pile before me like so many
Judy Schaefer
I was not with my mother when she died, her heart bursting
against her ribs, screaming for a violent release from her chest
I listened, ear to phone: Â Â Â Â Â nothing-more-could-be-done
     I recall her now, prayer petals of
Dianne Avey
She who shows up
to guide tiny fingers
toward ripening blackberries
and the spiral
of a moonsnail shell
Late summer treasures
She who shows up
with tea and bread
all the time in the world
to walk hand in
Krupa Harishankar
Reflections from the anatomy lab
overlooking Central Park
Reluctant, the same green
light over that copse of trees
and sheet of lawn glares and
bends through
Barry Saver
To be
And not to be…
Indeterminacy
May not be
So bad
Without this scan
We won’t know
If you’re living
Like the rest of us
Or dying
On a more compressed schedule
Once it’s done
You’ll be a zero or a one
Are you sure you want
His uneasy truce with cancer
was shattered by
the seizure,
awakening confused
in a side-railed bed.
He lies quiet, astonished
by the speed of change,
still hearing echoes of
his home.
I sit silently by his side
as he reads
Maggie Westland
I have a dance routine all in my hands, with steps
To take to make them bend again, at least to stall
The stalk of past abuse, of joint and sinew overuse
This jig more intricate, more complex, more diffuse
Than simple shuffles of the well-shod foot, requires
Ellen Cole
Lightheaded, as I so often am
when leukemia fevers sweep over me,
I fail to notice when I begin to rise,
feet bidding the floor goodbye,
I say, Brian, but you,
your eyes shut,  Â
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata
whispering in your earphones,
do not see me wink
Laura Foley
We’re sitting knee-to-knee
while her car gets new brakes, mine new fluids.
She discusses hip replacement,
in warrior-like detail, with a friend,
each slice to flesh, how skin is spread
from bone, the pain she’s in, her plans when she gets home,
the miracle of titanium. I’m trying
Daniel Becker
Once the tube is out it takes her a minute to turn blue and relax. Another minute to lose her pulse. I learned as a student to feel the difference between the pulse in my fingers and the pulse at the patient’s wrist. Or thought I learned. When
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