By Suzanne Underwood Rhodes

Why did she push the child 
down down in the bath
and hold her there in a womb of scalding heat
to thrash like a fish     O why her own,
her first-born bound as the faucet’s silver mouth
gushed with sounds she couldn’t hear?
The mother, entombed in her deaf water,
let go at last and the girl, dripping, mute with fear,
arose, to be drawn naked into her mother’s
remorseful, terrifying arms. 

Suzanne Underwood Rhodes is Arkansas’s eighth poet laureate. She is the author of Flying Yellow: New and Selected Poems, named a semi-finalist in the 2022 North American Book Award of the Poetry Society of Virginia. Other books are What a Light Thing, This Stone; two chapbooks, Hungry Foxes and Weather of the House, and two books of lyrical prose, A Welcome Shore and Sketches of Home. Her poems have appeared in many journals, books, and anthologies such as Mid/South Anthology, Slant, Shenandoah, Image, Alaska Quarterly Review, Christian Century, Words and Quilts, and others. Awards include nominations for the Pushcart prize, first place in the Dr. Lily Peter Memorial Award, first place in the Virginia Highlands Creative Writing Contest, and others. A retired college professor, she lives in Fayetteville and teaches virtual poetry workshops through the Muse Writers Center in Norfolk, Virginia.

By John Grey

So here he is,
stepping into the sunlight,
missing half a leg
but defiant.
After all,
everything else of him
remains in place.

A month in hospital,
a reprieve,
a vow to occupy the present tense
as passionately as ever.
Let disease bear the guilt.
It will not tell him what to do.

Outfitted with a prosthetic appliance,
but same voice,
same blue eyes,
despite everything, 
a pillar of free will,
of elementary particles 
in constant motion. 

Help him into the car maybe
but not into his life.
He’s there already.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages, Memory Outside The Head, and Guest Of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline, and International Poetry Review.

By Victoria Crawford

My toes once clutched pool edge
curled bird claws
teetering betwixt
excitement and fear,
racing dive or belly flop?

At home with palliative care
needles and pills,
I trace ceiling cracks
shapeless void
eyes closed and open

Mimosa leaves wave 
through windows
one morning
I wake to the delight
of no pain
the novelty of twitching
fingers and toes

Two years on, 
I wiggle my toes
pool edge, bright water
racing dive or belly flop?

Victoria Crawford began writing poetry during a two year recovery period following a stroke. Her poems have appeared in journals such as Blood and Thunder.

By Cit Ananda

It has happened before. 
Remember the flood.
Remember Atlantis.
Some do.
Some remember. 
Ancient cells woven
into youthful flesh.
Memory is a fickle thing
that rises when rising is summoned.

Bone chill,
the resonance of remembering
vibrates through our body,
a signal from the left malleolus 
where deep within the neighboring tendon lies a cell
within whose membrane is a code scribed in nucleic acids
part of which once trampled the Earth in the spine of a brontosaurus’
seventh vertebrae.

Nothing is ever lost.
On the outer edge of an expanding black hole
sprayed like a Jackson Pollock, 
is information— bits and bytes, stored as a dome,
a cell membrane of events, of data.

Ever wonder why bones are piezoelectric?

This is one of many ways the Great Mystery plays our tune
in harmony with the beetles and the whales,
sending chills down our spine 
so we resonate with what we didn’t know
we already knew. 

Inspired by “From the Council of All Being” by Joanna Macy

Cit Ananda experiences language as a proxy, pointing to the unspeakable majesty of life. Her poetry is frequently inspired by direct experience, captured in the moments between perception when the mind falls quiet and deep silence shares an offering that touches the mystery of life’s majesty. She will tell you she catches poetry on the winds of the universe. There is a thread in all her work of the sacred, sometimes explicitly and sometimes implicitly, but it is always there just as it is always present in the flow of life. She holds a Doctor of Divinity in yogic philosophy and lives with her husband, two children, a fox-red lab, a rescue cat and a calico bunny in Idaho. Cit Ananda has had work published or forthcoming in Mountain Path, Tiferet Journal, Amethyst Review, Soul-Lit, Offerings: A Spiritual Poetry Anthology from Tiferet Journal and El Portal. She is also the author of When Silence Speaks: Messages from the Heart, a full-length poetry book.

By Shawna Swetech

Color of oxidized metal or the brown  
of fungus on a rose leaf. Stainless steel  
won’t corrode, neither will plastic. But once, 
I ran my finger over a spot of powdery bronze  
on a cast-iron skillet, marveling how the color 
stained my skin. Then, decades later, that rotation 
in the ER during nursing school, when a young man 
came in hemorrhaging from his mouth, a few days
post-tonsillectomy, spitting copious volumes of blood 
into a pink washbasin. We ran his gurney down the hall
and straight into an OR suite for emergent surgery 
before he bled out. Afterward, I couldn’t stop trembling,
had to step outside into the cool morning air 
before helping clean the exam room: the burgundy
splattered walls; the fishing of paper towels 
from the basin of coagulating, still-warm blood. 
I’ll never forget the sickening glisten of floating fat, 
the blood’s metallic odor, like copper or rusty
iron. How the large, soft clots moved
against my gloved hand—the roiling horror
of that very close call.

Shawna Swetech is poet and recently retired RN who spent 35 years as med/surg nurse.

By Susan Davis

God clears the path 
traffic is non existent
Monday morning 
in Southern California
Mission Hospital our destination

vomiting and the worst headache ever
two signs a brain aneurysm
was lurking somewhere near

7:15 am
our lives changed forever

ER the big blazing red sign on the left
turning our BMW and racing into the parking lot
ambulances only
I’m terrified of ambulances
shaking pulling out and parking elsewhere
Karen’s soft voice:
“go get someone, I can’t walk”

automatic doors opening for me
yelling, I need help
a male attendant guiding the wheelchair
slowly, slowly, and slowly
to our car

grabbing your hand
and placing you
in a wheelchair
pushing slowly
too slowly for my comfort

placing a pink-bucket 
on your lap
for vomiting
inside the ER
leaving you by the fish tank
big, beautiful, fish swimming
independently
you needing help 

the pink paper strong and firm
together on the hard backing
of a clipboard
squeezing the clipboard
with terrified fingers
Karen was all I could write

screaming from your lungs
now aspirating
my lungs bellowed
the screams heard by all 
mine was the loudest
a teacher’s voice
wanting to control the room

walking slowly
the attendant returned

silence by all
pushing you slowly
through the trauma door

your drooping head
touching your left shoulder
collapsing eyes closing

medical staff
swarming the room
all hands on deck
intubating you while I sat far away

the team wheeling you past me on a gurney
a blue bag connected to your face
were you suffocating?

rushing to CT with an entourage of
nurses 
I love you, Bear
no response

questions being fired at me one after the other
did she eat breakfast?
what pills were taken?
insurance?
home address?

results:
brain scan: screamed 
a brain aneurysm
rupture

placing you in a six week coma 
the chasm where sleeping was all you could do 
pinned down by
tubes, medicines, machines
and fate

nurses at your side
two at a time
machines beeping
red lights blinking
like a construction zone
warning: danger

all while sleeping

holding onto what life 
you had left

our pups need
food and water
it is now 8:00 pm
I need to
return calls,
write emails,
prepare lessons 

a teacher by day
one hundred and sixty eighth graders
all needing me too

another red light shines
another alarm buzzes, 
but this time- for me
home
6:30 am
kibbles for the pups
shower, dress, another day
a cookie for each dog

drive to school to teach

back at your bedside
the Beijing Olympics
blare on most televisions
my sweet Bear
deep in the depths of medications
tubes, bed bumpers, IV’s 

everything restraining you 
from even moving a hair

7:00 am open my classroom door
students in and out 
long before school began
Room 14 a place for all
a safe zone
essays taught
literature too
young voices

needing me 
claiming me
as their own

but I needing them too

Olympics were boring
without you
silence where conversation once was
our pups and me on our sofa
no conversation
just my own

you lay supine in 
the burgundy bed
in “grave condition”

time was of the essence
minutes, hours, days 
monitors all around you
to give the doctors and nurses
results

hang on, Bear
I’m right here

in room 14 at my desk
my phone rings
the hospital
needs permission
to “aspirate your lungs”
yes, I reply
I’ll sign the papers 
when school is out

I bolt to the hospital
where you are
to see you
to hear you-
to touch you
but only the machines give voice
buzz, beep, beep, beep
the sounds reverberate off the walls

the aspiration a success
touching your arm soft and warm
do you feel me? 
I talk to you 
I sing to you
do you hear me?

when will you wake up?

life is lonely without you

back home
do the dogs know?
feeding them three at a time
answering emails
phone calls one by one
grading essays one hundred at a time

I drive from school
Room 14 to the hospital – Room 12
two numbers apart

but miles away

no dishes to wash
no food to eat at home
breakfast-lunch-dinner
all on the road

at your bedside
watching you eat 
liquid drips from the tan bottle 
on a tall metal pole that secures your meals
hoisted high above your head
it flows through a tube into your nose
eventually into your tummy

what flavor is it?
is there even a taste?
chocolate? maple maybe?
it’s tan in color
how many calories? 

my blueberry tea latte and blueberry scone
let’s have breakfast-you and me
silence so profound that it breaks

devouring my scone
tasting every savory bite of dough and blueberries
wondering if your liquid nutrients taste
as good as my blueberry scone

sushi- four times a week
our favorite dinner together
one order of yellowtail
salmon and a California roll
ponzu sauce on the side

liquid dinners-one drip at a time

I’m on my own
sushi for one, please

Michael Phelps won eight gold medals
Misty May-Treanor Kerri Walsh Jennings
didn’t lose a single set

you were supposed to watch 
with me-

when will the coma release you from its hold?

daily I come to see you
to hear you
to touch you
but you are speechless

silence speaks volumes again

Bob Costas commentating on primetime
Jim Lampley on daytime
Mary Carrillo late night

I want to hear your voice!

I was a teacher by day
a wife
a lonely companion
by night.

                                    Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Susan M. Davis is a retired English teacher of 28.5 years. She is a constant mentor for her former students. She is married to her wife of twenty years. Her wife suffered a brain aneurysm rupture on 7/28/2008. Susan continued to teach 160 eighth graders a day then she went home to caretake for her wife. In between those full time duties, Susan earned three MFA degrees at Fairfield University. Susan and Karen live in Irvine California with their three pups.

By Christopher Linforth

I miss those emails 
you sent me:
called me licorice boy
after a season in
Finland, & I stayed
silent, unwilling to
reply, even after 
being a reply-guy
for so many years,
deaf to what you
actually wanted, 
& I remember you
saw us as a duet,
our minds & voices 
in rapture,
with so much to
say about our future 
that I missed the part
about the air around me
carrying the sound
of only a single breath.

Christopher Linforth’s latest book is The Distortions (Orison Books, 2022).

By Denise England

Dedicated to Austen Jeanette Bell

The plastic cup could only hold one ounce
of liquid or a few pills, two or three;
you swallowed them then from your bed you threw
down the wretched vessel in defiance.
But as it flew, it floated like a sail
and bounced as soft as cotton off the nurse.
Her cheek flushed pink and from my perch I burst,
scooping the cup I urged you to impel
it harder as it caused you great offense.
And when you’d thrown it wildly but not further,
your fury not yet spent I said to murder
this tiny demon symbol of your cancer.
Yet though pulverized, it was resilient,
like you. At twelve mere years, you my niece, are valiant.

Denise England is a Francophile and lover of poetry, art, travel and medieval cathedrals. Having studied in Bordeaux, France, before completing an M.A. in French literature, her passion for French language and literature, as well as her travels abroad with her husband Heath and family, inspire much of her writing. Her work seeks to find elements of faith and connection in the sensations of life. She enjoys sharing and developing her poetry within communities of other poets and artists, including The Muse Writing Center in Norfolk, Virginia, and Spectra Arts in Northwest Arkansas, where she lives.

By Nigel Smith

A poem written about a ‘peak experience, from a hospital stay two years ago, Cellulitis, Pneumonia, +13 1/2y PD.

Then the World held no comfort for me; and
within a pause, all my ‘before’ and ‘now’
blanched invisible with the rapid dilation of
my collapse;

to live must I stand, and move, endure
pain beyond, again and again to keep
the mosaic of the feather self whole;

a thought bloomed with a sickening jar,
I knew I was broken, my World no longer
held any comfort, no cradle of infancy
remained, gone the surety of the familiar;

ahead, a tangle of thorns through which I must
once more stumble and crawl, muscle and tendon
protesting with fire;

I could do so no more, I sought the still sleep of
moss & granite, my last and only movement being
fingers over Lilies strewn, tracing the yellowing curl
of their decay;
and yet, at this my endpoint, a hand laid tender
strokes of soft persistence upon my hair, each,
in its wake, drawing me closer to her embrace;

and when my head finally pillowed upon her,
she shared the beat of her heart, its soft hypnosis
complete as she hummed ‘I know, …..I know’

I was but one of many in her care yet I felt a
love of sorts, from a stranger who helped
the sick, the Lost for no other reason than
Goodness within;
she smiled the world to wait, and said
‘Come on Love’, and I rose through my
pain, my anguish and stood
once more;

where for a second or two
I knew the majesty of human
love, of compassion’s silent
power.

I could see only the neutral
shades of the same, contrast
struggling to get purchase,
and everyone blinking,
trying to clear a tear;

Nigel Smith is from and currently lives north of Leeds, in the county of West Yorkshire. He is married to Jo-ann and has two adult children Before PD he worked in Optics, now he writes poetry and creates content for audio and visual projects. He is co-founder of ‘The Wall,’ home to the collective known as The Poets with Parkinsons.

By Andrew Oh

That’s short for formaldehyde.
Dying of a fatal arrhythmia at 94,
Al was a grandfather,
a lover of tattoos,
and my first patient.

When I first met him,
he was lying face-up on 
cold steel.
He spread his arms out,
and invited us into his space.

When I cut too deep 
into his abdomen,
or failed to separate the fascia 
between his muscles,
he was always patient with me,
never raising his voice
or rolling his eyes.

He showed me the web-like muscle network
of dilated cardiomyopathy
and what it smells like
when you perforate the bowel.

On our final day in the lab,
I walked over to table 9,
Al’s resting space,
temporary home,
and last place I’ll see him.
“Thank you” I whispered,
and zipped his bag shut.

Andrew Oh is an MS4 at University of Washington School of Medicine.