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Poems
One Afternoon at Teatime
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,
I nod to Arthur and watch his mouth form words
that seem reluctant to reach me, hang
in the air unsteady, diminished.
He continues to speak, I continue to nod,
I think he’s asking about my name,
you seem to understand, or do you guess?
I’m trying to work out if there’s a knack
I’ve yet to grasp, a way to hear
the hush and lisp of his voice, because
all the time you’ve been here, where
you don’t want to be, after all these months
Arthur is the first person you’ve introduced me to.
Body Language
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 hold one of his
that first day in the hospital
as my eyes whispered how much I cared
and his smile replied, Thank you
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.