When Grieving
Barbara DeCoursey Roy
July 22, 2022
13 Comments
drink water
let ocean in
tears roll
erase beach
unground you
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Poems
When they ask how he died I tell them
Stacy Nigliazzo
July 1, 2022
15 Comments
he found the gate unlatched,
crossed the downy path
into the volant field,
Toxemia of Pregnancy
Joan Baranow
June 10, 2022
5 Comments
There was the bed bent in half,
the needle in the wrist,
the crack of bathroom light under the door.
Your father tried to sleep in the hospital cot
Healing
Cheryl Byler Keeler
May 20, 2022
No Comments
When I thought I might die,
not eventually, but very
soon, I treated me more kindly,
as if I were my own child,
the girl I was, and the woman
I am, all melded
Good Enough
Carol Scott-Conner
April 29, 2022
No Comments
Three weeks after my mastectomy, I traveled south.
I slung my carry-on bag crosswise over my body
and jostled my way through the airport, the bag
in front of me, to form a barrier, protecting my incision.
I let my arm rest on the bag,
In the Regression of Aging Bodies
Roz Levine
April 8, 2022
17 Comments
There are buttons he can’t slip in notches
And zippers he forgets to zip
There are broccoli stalks that need slicing
And urine stains scoured from floors
There are socks that need feet
And shoes that need their socks
How to Get Enough Pain Medication to Allow You to Die
Jimmy Pappas
March 18, 2022
12 Comments
The doctors will visit you
at your hospital bed because
that is what they do.
When they ask you if it hurts here,
say Yes it hurts here.
Recurrence
Jared Sain
February 25, 2022
7 Comments
What was it my father said to me
when I forgot to latch the gate
and we spent the night in the woods
searching for eyes among shadows
of tree trunks cast by flashlight?
Dying Is Ugly
Henry Schneiderman
February 4, 2022
15 Comments
Bang my shins, my temple on the gritty wall
Of Charlie’s deathbed
Where we do not wrest the truth
But beg him Let us change the (piss-stenched) sheets.
He will not go for tests, insists, denial overarching
Continent
Jenna Le
January 14, 2022
3 Comments
Contact: from the Latin for touch.
Isolate: from the Latin for island.
Because your breath had touched mine,
I was obliged to metamorphose
into a separate land mass,
to wear a collar of brine
like a heavy gurgling yoke
Seated on My Hospital Bed
Dianne Silvestri
December 24, 2021
No Comments
My seventh-floor window vibrates,
the room throbs in crescendo
as a rescue helicopter stitches
a curved seam across the sky
bound for Children’s Hospital.
Migraine
Alexandra Pârvan
December 3, 2021
No Comments
It’s not the heart that gathers all the pain
of our life, it’s the head;
burning head, cremating all my movements
forcing me to fake that I exist: