By Claire Gist Bradberry

She is an artist
Painting pictures  
Of Love

            Hate

                       Joy

                                     Belonging                                  

She is a warrior 
Defending against

            Enemies

                       Friends

                                     Illness

And when
            She breaks
She mends 
            She flakes
She tends

To tell stories
Of Strength 

             Diligence

                    Tenacity 

                          Resilience 

A story 
Of humanity

She holds fragile things gently
In place
So we may stay
And face
Another day

---

Claire Gist Bradberry is a second year medical student at the UAMS Northwest Regional Campus in Fayetteville. She works as a student editor for the Conversations section of Medicine & Meaning.

By Trae Stewart

Shiny wire rims encircle wrinkled eyelids,
pinkish chiffon veils gliding across Sycamore orbs; 
cornflower blue sclera injected with burgundy webs,
underlined by ashen puffs of fatigue.

Winces from fissured knuckles, 
scoured and scalded, 
to tenderly provide for the nascent and historied.
Beneficence to others, as vulturous time tortures the caring.

Weighted feet ground a heavier heart,
Yet feather light, transformed by a code. 
Jolts of hope pass inward, implore a normal rhythm.
Struggling against the persistent sickle’s edges.
A brief journey for some.

Desiccated palms, camouflaged by nitrile, revealed 
When slumber seduces the sun.
Scour and scald before respite;
Sycamore orbs sunken by tsunamis of need.

To return with the sun, with fire and warmth,
A glow of seemingly inexhaustible light, 
Dims and flickers,
Sustains and envelops. 
A source of energy and prowess.

Even when fatigue and darkness cavalry incessantly,
Weathered Sycamores focus on Atlantean tasks 
Buttressed by instruments of care,
Scoured and scalded. 
One more shift.

Lit by sparks of duty, vows;
Fired by effort and skills;
Maintained by compassion and hope;
Supported by teamwork;
Protected by salve. 
Until the sun dreams anew.

---

Trae Stewart is an emerging queer poet and psychiatric-mental health nurse practitioner. He writes poetry to center and ground himself so that he may best help others. Trae’s poetry has been recently featured in San Antonio Review, Aurum Journal, orangepeel, and Survive & Thrive. He is also a widely published academic researcher and seasoned educator.

By Paulette Guerin

The contents are “time-sensitive.”
I slit the envelope with my finger. 

Coffee rings line the counter like moon slivers, 
measuring lapsed time. In a high corner, a spider is poised

like a little god. I water potted plants
long dead, stare at old pictures held in place 

by refrigerator magnets cold to the touch.

---

Paulette Guerin is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Florida. She lives in Arkansas and teaches writing, literature, and film. Her poetry has appeared in Best New Poets, ep;phany, Contemporary Verse 2, and others. Wading Through Lethe is her first full-length poetry collection. She also has a chapbook, Polishing Silver.

By Paulette Guerin

Gray skies spread above us like lace 
on a communion tray.
Inside, they fed my father

through tubes clear with morphine
or red with blood. Fluorescent lights
bounced off slick walls and cheap art. 

We passed Labor & Delivery, a lullaby playing
for each birth, then took the elevator up. 
Machines beeped him in and out of sleep. 

Lungs stuffed with late spring, 
we paced the oval walkway,
an iron cross branding the horizon.

---

Paulette Guerin is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Florida. She lives in Arkansas and teaches writing, literature, and film. Her poetry has appeared in Best New Poets, ep;phany, Contemporary Verse 2, and others. Wading Through Lethe is her first full-length poetry collection. She also has a chapbook, Polishing Silver.

By John C. Marecki

He carved a spot of skin today, and then another,
The slice all stained to find the danger,
In search of foes, to map the border.
Just a bit more, he dug in deeper.

Twenty-three loops to close the crater,
For all to see, a meandering fracture, 
A mirrored scar I feel forever.
“Within a year, you may have another.”

And Mohs was right.

---

John C. Marecki, Ph.D., is an Instructor in the Department of Biochemistry and Molecular Biology at UAMS. His poetry considers the feelings of the patient when confronted with the limitations of medicine.

By Stephen Phillip Johnson

What moves, shore or ship,

   when souls sail, blinking,

        heartbeat . . .  a blip,

yonder fog engaged,

   muted by seas

        no mortal sails?

We but hold the lamp,

   squint- at their departure,

        left here to wade-

shallow waters lapping,

   tugging, with a sweet tide

        we’ve yet to taste.

---

Stephen Phillip Johnson is a Mountain Home carpenter. Writing is his itch. Within the halls of medicine, where he’s been (repeatedly) healed, reside flocks of muses.

By Carol Barrett

I find myself starting to repeat 
the names, like Mom did,

from the top, so she could get
to the one she wanted. I’m beginning

to wonder if we will go
in that order, oldest first.

If so, I’ll be number two, endure
just one more family funeral.

Already the first-born has fallen
down the stairs, just last month,

crushed her collar bone. I remove
throw rugs, tuck my phone close. 

She crawled upstairs, stumbled out 
to the car for hers. Raining. 

Imagine the pain. I could be called
on to speak for her, and then

for the four behind me in line.
Help us swallow. Take the next

breath. There are things
I need to do. But who doesn’t want

another year or two to cross
things off the list, watch 

a child sail into her own, help 
a stranger survive the cold? 

God, it’s cold. Winter holds us 
hostage. Ice gleams on the road

happy in its arrogance.
I close the blinds. And the names 

repeat. Six of us. Like bells.
Kathy-Carol-Patty-Susy-Billy-Nancy:

my mother calling
someone to her side.

---

Carol Barrett, Ph.D., coordinates the Creative Writing Certificate Program for doctoral students at Union Institute & University. She has taught courses on Poetry and Healing for several universities. Carol has two poetry collections out: Calling in the Bones (winner of the Snyder Prize from Ashland Poetry Press) and Drawing Lessons. Her creative nonfiction book Pansies was a recent finalist for the Oregon Book Awards. Her poems appear in a wide array of magazines including JAMA, Poetry International, The Women’s Review of Books, Persimmon Tree and Bellevue Literary Review.

By Kimiya Amjadi

Cough cold, fever, and chills

Here’s the season of growing medical bills

Restless nights, sneezes, and many pills 

It’s that time of year for writing antiviral refills

Fatigue, malaise, and bodies in pain,

Our beloved “Influenza” is back again

Immunoassays, PCRs, and RIDTs 

Overwhelming laboratories, but we know what it is

For influenza is back again, fierce as ever

Forever mean, and relentless in its endeavor 

O’ how we encouraged to vaccinate,

Advocating prevention, and hoping to eradicate

Education that was not well received

From the very young to the elderly, no one believed

Declining it, “NO WAY”, they repeatedly said,

Now it’s payback time, with tissue boxes and sanitizers instead

ER visits, hospital admissions, tired physicians

Trying so hard to determine patients’ dispositions

Washing hands, wearing masks, and overworked

Stressed clinicians and staff, burning out, one by one

Remember this next year, before influenza returns again

Overwhelming everyone, creating headaches and so much pain

Show some love for yourself and others

Vaccinate for influenza, and help our healthcare providers

---

Dr. Kim Amjadi, M.D., has been a resident of Arizona for over 40 years and has been practicing medicine for over 25 years. Dr. Amjadi has been very active with numerous philanthropy projects both locally and globally ranging from feeding the homeless and helping fellow healthcare workers combat burnout and mental health issues during the pandemic, to aiding orphanages in neighboring countries. Her favorite activities and hobbies include hiking, painting, writing, poetry, swimming, tennis, yoga, meditation, and dancing.

By Jennifer Fritch

LOVE is not for everyone.

Avoid LOVE if you are not prepared, as this may cause a sudden, unsafe drop in blood pressure.

If you experience chest pain, nausea, or any other discomfort from LOVE, these may be signs of a rare, but serious condition, called infatuation.

Sudden decrease or loss of hearing has been reported in people taking LOVE.  These events may be related directly to LOVE, or to other factors, such as the conscious choice to ignore your lover.

Use care with LOVE while driving.

For more information about LOVE, ask your doctor, healthcare professional, or pharmacist.

---

Jennifer Fritch’s work has most recently appeared in US1 Worksheets Volume 67, which has just been released in print. In addition, she recently won the Bucks County College Short Fiction Contest.

By Vincent Casaregola

No one will know, now, or care
that, in your rush this morning, 
you grabbed one dark blue sock
and one black in the rumpled sock drawer.

Now stockinged feet rest, splayed, pointing
to opposing walls of the E.R. room,
empty now from its bustling rhythms
just moments before—finally at rest.

The sheet covers you, but not your feet,
and the room surveys you, indifferently,
as one more piece of human furniture
awaiting delivery to another site.

The wall clock continues its measured pace,
its face impassive—it did not stop 
when the attending ceased compressions
and told the charge nurse to “call it.”

On the floor beside your resting place
lie one crumpled blue glove and three
torn plastic wrappers that had held objects
once thought essential for your survival.

Within you, anatomy is closing down—
lungs, stilled, no longer trouble the air
with gasps, heart machinery motionless,
blood settling in its silent chambers.

Throughout miles of inner vessels,
red cells float aimlessly, and now that 
the vital flow has ceased, they sift slowly
downward, sadly, in gravity’s firm grasp.

In the brain, electric currents flicker
for a moment, with power now lost,
and section by section neurons fade,
darken themselves, erasing memory.

Tubes dangle from this or that device,
one or two still attached to nose and arm—
linens, blue and white, retain their wrinkles
as you left them, scented of your sweat.

From one wall, the sprinkler system head
remains unperturbed, its chrome housing,
cylindrical, offering back a convex
reflection of your now-pale repose.

Lying here, you remain in this moment’s
near silence—only the subtle sounds of air
through the building’s pipes—in just a minute,
in will come attendants to wheel you out.

Your mild scent fades from the air, and 
your image dissolves, softly, from the memory
of beige walls and grey machines—with you
gone, this room awaits another life or death.

---

Vincent Casaregola, Ph.D., is a professor in the Department of English and the Director of the Film Studies Program at St. Louis University. He has published and won awards for both literary nonfiction and poetry. Journals include The Examined Life, Natural Bridge, New Letters, Via, and The Iowa Journal of Literary Studies.