Kenneth Gaynes

Stars that swirl and glow in mine shine in a way I can’t believe is real
Unable to look away I’m drawn to the way her eyes gleam
Something about this feeling warns my heart and mind not to scream
As one small worry or doubt may unravel this perfect seal
This entire moment I wait, for this woman’s blink I steel
Only longing will come with the disconnecting of this seam
Fate may have it I may stay eternally in this dream
Because all my life I’ve wished to be the star that swirls around that wheel

This constellation shows our thoughts combined
As my own sight begins to disappear
I look deeper into our conjoined mind
And realize it’s through her stars I peer
In this new life with our souls aligned
I hold comfort knowing she’s always near

Bio

Kenneth Gaynes was born and raised in Southern California where he worked EMS for three years and attained an AAS in Behavioral Health before moving to Central Arkansas to further his education. He writes poetry and fiction in the form of short stories in his free time. He currently attends UAMS’s CON BSN program where he is currently on the final semester of his junior year.

Matthew Zambito

Panic is accelerating as if in freefall,
a tumor on your thoughts, lesions
on your feelings. Melancholia turns

dysthymia (if you’re lottery lucky) or into
a treatment-resistant depression deep
as the Mariana Trench if the Mariana Trench

got used as a drainage ditch. Tics convulse
muscles by a nervy, bedeviled compulsion.
The holed shebang remains a mystery

of the mind with no whodunit revelation
come the last chapter. Psych-prescribed
pills popped provide effective effects plus

plenty of others on the side. Your cerebral
hemispheres keep having a hateful lovers’
quarrel over corpus callosum and require

couples counseling you can’t afford. Ideas
for brainchildren, already straightjacketed
in a room padded with corpses, sob in-

consolably. If you’re gabbing with ghosts
you’re all the way there. You’re there,
and not, and a god, golden and bovine.

Bio

Matt Zambito is the author of The Fantastic Congress of Oddities, and two chapbooks, Guy Talk and Checks & Balances. New poems appear or are forthcoming in Freshwater Literary Journal, Braided

Kristi Jones

Microscopic airborne germs, coughed out by one who is sick
rhinovirus or influenza or SARS COVID 2
Inhaled by an especially unlucky person
who suffers from asthma
The germs have hit the jackpot on where they can cause harm

The wily respiratory virus sneaks into the lungs
an invader the body can’t fight off
an unwelcome visitor who doesn’t ask permission to enter
The virus ignites a firestorm of irritation and inflammation
Coughing commences and mucus multiplies

Bring on the arsenal of asthma medications.
Albuterol relaxes and opens airways
Nebulizer medicines travel deep into the lungs
long-acting bronchodilators + inhaled steroids make breathing easier
The “big guns” oral steroids do the job well—beware of side effects.

Eventually, the virus symptoms subside
The horrible cough evolves into
an annoying post-viral cough
Slowly this residual cough disappears
as the lungs continue to heal.

Bio

Kristi Jones is a poet by night, and works in academic public health at UW-Madison School of Medicine and Public Health by day. Her poems has been published in Kaiser Health News. She holds a BA from St Olaf College.

Charles Strahan

When I look into your eyes
my world just melts away.
The things I know evaporate
and I watch you take their place.
I’m standing at the crossroads
of what is and what could be
trying to find the line
between what’s real and make believe.

When I look into your eyes
I feel your head against my chest.
I feel your fingers down arms
and your lips upon my neck.
And as we lie together
I can feel our hearts connect
as we close our eyes and soon shall find
a long and peaceful rest.

When I look into your eyes
I’m having dinner with your mother.
I’m talking music with your sister
and watching football with your brother.
And when I’m with your father
I’m never feeling antsy
because I know he won’t reject me
because I’m already his family.

When I look into your eyes
I must surely be insane.
I want to see your everything,
all the pleasure, all the pain.
I want to bring you laughter.
I want to wipe away your tears.
I want to make you comfortable.
I want to squash all of your fears.
I want to see you walk the aisle.
I want for us to share a name.
And what’s craziest of all
Is that I think you want the same!

But when you close your eyes
and I’m brought back to here and now,
you’re standing here before me
in a sparkling wedding gown.
Your husband stands beside you
with his hand around your waist.
You both thank me for coming,
a smile stretched across your face.

As much as I would like to try
to selfishly object
and justify a fantasy
of a life that we both have left,
There’s no more room for ‘what could be’.
The truth is what this is.
And though I’d like to call you mine
I know that you are his.

I force a smile and shake his hand
And wish you best of luck.
I thank you for the invitation
and say I have to duck.
You wrap your arms around me
As you give me your goodbye
I feel your warmth encompass me
as I’m trying not to cry.

I know that this is for the best.
It should come as no surprise.
But I still see what we could be
when I look into your eyes.

Julia Wang 

Sleepless nights, interruptions and anxiety. Did I do the right thing? Did I say the right thing? Are you going to be ok? 

I’ve found that there are a lot of similarities between motherhood and medicine.  

Whether I’m wearing a white coat or snot on my shoulder; I’m here. For you.  

For the strangers who are waiting to find out if their life is about to change.  

For my toddler handing me the next book to read.  

My thoughts and feelings; they are mostly the same.  

Did I do the right thing? Did I say the right thing? Are you going to be ok? 

I hope you always know – I’m here for you. 

Bio 

Julia Wang is currently a third year Neurology resident. She gets her writing inspiration from experiences in parenthood, medicine, and the few quiet moments in between. 

J.M. Morgan

In the garden
In the world
A maze of nature
Surrounded by seas

There stands a statue
Cloaked—adorned
In white mulberry silk
And starling feathers

Feathers, twigs, petals
Rest at its feet
“Ki-ki, ki-ki, ki-ki,”
Resound the Northern Flickers

They surround in worship
To the statue—onlookers stare
In admiration, in provocation
At the scene displayed

Ki-ki, ki-ki invades
The space between
Dream and reality
Past and present

A clad, feathered figure
Emerges from the shadows—
Deafening the muffles of
Opposers to this spectacle

Admirations amplify
Insults intensify
Within the garden
Within the world

The figure, Elder Flicker,
Valiant against dissenters
Listens to the drumming while
Twirling through the wind

“Soon they will see,”
Commands Elder Flicker,
“That this is the way,
Gone are the olden days.”

Lone Flicker steps forward
To protest, assert resistance
Of this new devotion—
This fantastical illusion

“Ethics, respect, honor,”
Lone Flicker asserts,
“The principles of our elders’ past
Are our ideal and our resolve.”

Others join Lone Flicker
In protest of this outburst
The devotion circle that
Has become the world

But their fervor is no match
Against the believers of
Elder Flicker—a proponent
Of the new world design

“Fall in line!” believers shriek
Chucking twigs with wings—
“No, you fall in line!”
The resistance retorts.

Elder Flicker directs them
To banish the resistance
From the circle
Amid the celebration

“Disrespect, dishonor?”
Elder Flicker coaxes,
“Reverence and obedience—
Opposers? Swift demise!”

“Fall in line,” followers beg.
The resistance declines
Choosing to rebel, venture
Beyond the worship circle

Elder Flicker flicks his wings—
The followers squawk
Choosing to surround the
Dissenters, their opposition

They bound them with sisal
Surround them with twigs
“Ki-ki, ki-ki, ki-ki,”
Praises the followers

Onlookers—now bystanders
Observe the lit flame
Set to the twigs
In the piercing sun

“ki-ki! Ki-Ki! KI-KI!”
Weeps the opposition
As their flesh becomes
One with the flames

The resistance ceases
Inside their garden
Amid the drumming
Inside their world

Elder Flicker observes
Flaps his wings
Speaking a soliloquy while
Gazing out beyond the smoke

Rhythmic sounds echo
Marking the new purpose
“I am your king—your world,”
Boasts Elder Flicker.

His followers kneel
Harmonies erupt
Worshipping ensues
Amidst the sun’s setting

Elder Flicker speaks in a
Foreign tongue—toasting to
The day’s events
This moment’s feats

“Pray,” Elder Flicker commands.
His followers witness
Him beckoning his wings
Raising his beak

His followers delight
Bystanders flee
Beyond the circle
Outside the world

Elder Flicker dons the
Mulberry silk—sunset exposes
His Starling feathers as he
Soars atop the statue

“I am vengeance,
Never resist my doctrine—
My way, my world,”
Elder Starling asserts.

He fluffs his feathers as
His pawns cower with
Buried beaks—concealed eyes,
Bound wings in the moonlight

The statue, unprotected—
Makes an audible thud
As Elder Starling nudges
At its pedestal, its roots

New has emerged
In his garden
Waning to silence
Becoming—His World

Bio

J.M. Morgan is a postdoctoral researcher at UAMS. She is a poet, storyteller, and dreamer who explores identity through her writing. She published her debut poetry collection, silent scream, in 2021. When she isn’t buried in her academic and creative writing, she enjoys crafting, watching The Golden Girls, playing video games, and learning to play the guitar.

Brenique Sheldon

When I was small,
I practiced playing nurse
on my father.

A plastic stethoscope,
a borrowed authority,
my ear pressed to the steady drum
of someone I believed was permanent.

He would close his eyes on purpose,
wait for me to panic,
then laugh

and I would bring him back.

Back then,
I thought returning was simple.

My uncle existed in a room
that never slept.

Dialysis breathed in cycles,
a tired orbit,
a machine teaching his blood
how to be clean again.

He spoke less each time I saw him.
Not because he had nothing to say,
but because words require a future tense.

He was on a list.

Which is another way of saying
he lived suspended
between two endings.

My father learned his body could betray him
by the time I was ten.

Crohn’s disease…
a quiet thief,
taking in pieces small enough
no one applauds their disappearance.

I began to understand then:
strength is not loud.
It is what remains
after certainty leaves.

At eighteen,
I left.

Uniform pressed into sharp lines,
name stitched over my chest
as if identity could be contained
by thread.

Distance makes loss theoretical
until it doesn’t.

My grandfather dissolved slowly.

Dementia turned his memories into constellations
visible,
but unreachable.

By 2018,
even the light had finished traveling.

There are absences
that do not announce themselves.

They accumulate.

Quiet as decay.

I never intended to step toward medicine.

It had already taken enough.

But purpose does not knock.
It appears.

A shadow day.
A dim room.

A man lying still
while something unseen moved through him,
mapping what could not be felt.

A kidney scan.

No alarms.
No urgency.

Only waiting.
Only the soft rotation of the camera,
faithful as gravity.

I watched the screen
as his body translated itself
into light.

Faint at first.

Then undeniable.

And something in my chest
something I had carried without language
shifted

Not grief.

Not closure.

Something else.

Like recognizing a voice
you haven’t heard in years
coming from a room
you don’t remember entering.

The machine continued its orbit.

Unconcerned with past or future.
Only presence.
Only truth.

And for a moment,

I understood

some things do not leave.

They change form.

Bio

Brenique N. Sheldon was born and raised in Los Angeles, CA. She is a military veteran and a nuclear medicine student pursuing a career as a medical dosimetrist. In Half-Life, she reflects on personal encounters with illness and loss, exploring the quiet endurance of those who face vulnerability. The poem is a meditation on presence, care, and the unseen persistence of life. This is an invitation for all health care professionals to remember the humanity, connection, and purpose that guide their work. In the stillness of presence, what lingers long after the moment has passed?

Lakyn Webb 

He rode the city bus to the VA, always early, always dressed like dignity was a duty 

shirt crisp, shoes shined to a mirror’s edge, as if he owed the world a polished version of himself. 

He was ninety-something, still sharp-eyed, still carrying a posture etched by battles he would never describe. 

He had been a prisoner of war, but he never said where, or when, or how long. The details were locked behind a stare that could end a question mid-air. 

But he told me once about the Congo how he was lost for two months, fevered and disoriented, 

carried back to life by a forest community who shared their water, their shelter, their mercy. 

He survived continents, conflicts, viruses, and the slow erosion of outliving everyone he cared for. 

But he didn’t think his life mattered. 

When the psychiatrist asked if he wished he were dead, he didn’t break eye contact. “I’m ninety-three,” he said. “What exactly am I staying for?” 

Then he looked at me, long and discerning, and something inside him softened. 

“You understand empathy,” he said once. “That’s why I like you.” He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to. 

To the hurried staff moving too fast to see him, he’d mutter under his breath, half armor, half warning: “If you’re looking for sympathy, check the dictionary.” 

Humor as shield. Loneliness disguised as wit. He carried his pain quietly the way some men carry medals kept close, rarely shown, never mentioned. 

After he died, the confusion grew. No obituary, no next of kin, no clean narrative to explain who he had been. 

So I held a small gathering at his apartment complex. And people arrived neighbors from twenty years, the bus driver who knew his stop, the mail carrier who saved his letters, the woman downstairs he once helped through chemo. 

Each person came with a different story, a different version of him, a fragment of a life he never fully revealed. 

We pieced him together like stained glass, each shard bright, incomplete, and unexpectedly holy. 

He thought his life was pointless. But mine bent around his. And so did theirs. And theirs. And theirs. 

I carry him with me, into every room, every shift, every moment someone needs to be seen before they can be saved. 

He believed he didn’t matter. But he did. And we will not forget him. 

Bio 

Lakyn Webb is an emergency room nurse at the VA, a PhD student in the UAMS College of Nursing, and a Disaster Health Services and Communications volunteer with the American Red Cross. She also serves on the UAMS College of Nursing Board and is the Director of Research for the UAMS 12th Street Health and Wellness Center. Her work reflects a strong commitment to nursing leadership, service, and community health. 

Taylor Appleton 

When I was a child, I found a hurt animal, 

and I ran in the light of the sun. 

And was amazed at the smallest of rays that reflected in its eyes as I nurtured it, 

And tried to make it whole 

One day I realized, you could stare into the light until it began to hurt 

And all your shadows would fall behind you. 

There was a time when I could not look at pain without feeling it. 

Yet now I cannot afford to; I am blinded 

I see you but not your suffering anymore 

I treat with minimal care, though it feels here nor there 

And though I am blinded, on my breaks, I go outside and continue to stare at the sun 

They say experience is relative, philosophically, yet 

A child, full of hope, is staring at the same sun alongside me 

So I tear my eyes away, look down, and say 

If only you could be my partner again. 

Bio 

Tayler is a first year medical student and hoping to go into pediatric neurology. She is the author of one novel and has always had an intense passion for combining medicine with the arts.