- Home
- /
- Poems
Poems
Swimming With John’s Ghost
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 in different ways–
quoted John bragging about having the North Grounds pool
all to himself at sunrise. Morning people brag
about their mornings. This morning the lifeguards,
proving they do pay attention to the lives they guard,
have the music tuned to oldies–Sam Cooke crooning
you-ou-ou-ou send me as Sam’s fans adjust their goggles.
John, easy to spot in that shameless bathing cap
he claims helps part the waters, takes the lane next to me.
We’re standing there praying the water isn’t as cold as it is
and waiting for one of us to acknowledge our existence.
Body Hunger
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
and a sentence of death
Breathing the Same Air
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
and swirling clouds of tobacco smoke,
a tribute to the charred remains
of the man who still lives in smoke-filled
images of when we breathed the same air.
Under the CyberKnife
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?
Waking
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 eucalyptus grove
that is the lullaby for my dreams.
Winning
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 the digitalized music announce my victory.
Apparently, I am accumulating rewards for all of my clicking
            cherries for remembering to recheck labs
            stars for sending patient reminders
            extra lives for erasing the red in my registries
It seems that I am winning the game.
Perhaps on target to my all-time highest score.
Paper Crane
Sarah Nitoslawski
T-cell lymphoma in the brain
MRI flooded with glaring, white-hot streaks
Devouring cerebellum and frontal lobe
A scrawled note in his chart:
“difficult and disinhibited
Neurology–please re-assess”
At the sight of our starched white coats
He reaches shakily for the toothbrush on his meal tray
And begins to frantically scrub at his teeth
Wide dark eyes boring straight though us
He does not want us there.
Series: Patient Interviews
Alexandra Rosenberg
1. (PHQ-9: Screen for Depression)
“Depressed? Course I’m depressed.
My wife died ten years ago.
My son? Well…
He does the best he can for me.”
2. (DNR)
“What’s that you call it?
In-tube-ate?
No ma’am.
No way to die.
Just call my daughter,
give me some pills–
I’ll go easy.”
3. (Suicide Attempt)
“I’ve got two voices in my head
Chuck and Butch
Chuck’s not so bad, but Butch….
I like Chuck, I don’t want him to go away.
But things got bad,
My girlfriend left me.
My head was
a too-loud radio station
–can’t turn it off.
I took a bunch of pills
Bought a gun. I was going to do it.
But my mom got home early that day.
She took me here.
OR Tears
Anne Vinsel
Tears in the operating room are different from tears cried by civilians, by veals.
There are rules.
A single tear from one eye is unobjectionable.
Two tears, either one from each eye
          or two from one eye
          are permitted if they are unaccompanied by sniffles.
Three tears risks discovery and humiliation.
There are rules.
The mechanics of crying in the OR are difficult.
You may not brush a tear away.
Sterile and dirty may not touch.
Gloved sterile hands may not swipe unsterile eyes.
Best to let your tear take a quick dive into your blue pleated mask
          which will blot it up before it can drop into the sleeping patient’s incision.
There are rules.