By Taylor Tucker
a Lion sleeps
so others may know peace
a dark night ends
the glow of Mourning begins
a new dawn and new day
but the memories, they stay
as she closes her eyes
the ones she holds dear will rise
the Lion sleeps
now others
know peace
Taylor Tucker, M.D., is a Resident Physician at UAMS.
By Paulette Guerin
Living by the hospital I hear
at any hour the helicopter
lifting someone in or out.
The sky is neither open nor quiet.
The stars don’t turn away;
they are sucked blind in the city lights.
We’ve spent years praying
for those airdropped in.
We’ll never know their names.
Paulette Guerin lives in Arkansas and teaches writing, literature, and film. Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and has appeared or is forthcoming in Best New Poets, The Southern Review, epiphany, Carve Magazine, and others. She is the author of Wading Through Lethe (FutureCycle Press) and When I First Loved You (forthcoming from Belle Point Press). She also has a chapbook, Polishing Silver, as well as a chapbook-sized selection in the anthology Wild Muse: Ozarks Nature Poetry (Cornerpost Press). Her website is pauletteguerin.com.
By Rachel Armes-McLaughlin
I was sitting down to dinner
when you left this earth.
I had just bathed my daughter
and looked at the time.
I could smell the roasted vegetables.
Dinner was later than usual—
The chicken took forever,
and the cabbage burned.
The leftovers are in my fridge,
but I don’t think they’ll be eaten.
Maybe it’s silly, but I keep thinking
about how I cooked for you
and your daughter,
long before mine was born.
You didn’t like to cook meat yourself,
but I think you would have liked the chicken.
I wish you could have been here,
instead of where you were
and where you are now.
Rachel Armes-McLaughlin, a grant writer with the UAMS Institute for Digital Health and Innovation, has written poetry for over 20 years. Her work is published in Loblolly Press; Middle Mouse Press; Medicine and Meaning, where she reviews poetry; and a Central Arkansas Library System anthology, with one poem nominated for Best of the Net. Rachel lives in Little Rock, Arkansas, with her husband, daughter, and cats.
By Jacqueline Coleman-Fried
I expect he’ll come home
from the hospital—thin,
but still barrel-chested.
I’ll nurse him.
Buy boxes of Ensure.
Paper underwear.
Put out blue towels, flower
sheets on our queen bed.
Tisch, 17 West,
Room 15—
There are two stiff mattresses
close enough to kiss.
And through a large, clear window—
the black, black night.
Under a head light, I see
my husband’s lips
quiver when he snores.
Step close enough
to stroke his forehead, his neck.
To whisper words.
Will he hear?
This sterile hospital room
is our bedroom, where shared
sleep and darkness
are intimate as sex.
Morning. Still breathing.
I take the train home.
A hushed phone call
before sun the next day.
He’s hard as marble, soon
to be ash.
I wash the floral sheets, return
the blue towels to the closet.
Weeks later, I etch the night—
to fix it, to hold it.
Jacqueline Coleman-Fried is a poet who lives in Tuckahoe, New York. Her work has appeared in The Orchards Poetry Journal, Nixes Mate, Streetlight Magazine, New Verse News and Consequence.
By Rachel Greenberg
Nearing cronehood
I’ve had my share of trauma and tragedy.
Buried loved ones,
my own war wounds.
To those who seek healing,
now that I know what I know
I want to tell them this:
Don’t you know that your pain is metaphor
your loss, poetic
the horrors you’ve experienced, heroic?
Everything is a symbol of something else
like these leaves clinging
to their last vestiges of life
before they spin to earth,
like the cold darkness before dawn,
like the wild geese just outside my window.
They call to me
as you tell your story.
Rachel Greenberg is a therapist, poet, memoirist and storyteller who lives in bucolic Western Massachusetts. She has a private practice and her work as a therapist and love of wild spaces inform her writing. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in the Atlanta Review, the Elysium Review, Mama Stew, the Main Street Rag, and the Sun Magazine.
By Cynthia Bernard
He didn’t know where to stop
so he kept going, kept going,
excising strip after strip,
two millimeters at a time.
He wanted a clear margin,
he wanted, for her,
all of this to be over,
so he cut and he swabbed,
and he cut some more,
and he thought, well, just a bit more,
let’s be certain to get it all,
out, out, damn spot
and anything spreading
from the spot,
so he kept going,
cut, swab, cut, swab,
until it was all gone,
she had no skin left,
then he wrapped her
in parchment paper
to protect the furniture
and sent her home,
dripping, happily dripping,
so relieved—no skin,
no melanoma,
no worries anymore.
Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her early seventies, a long-time classroom teacher and an emerging writer of poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction. She lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 25 miles south of San Francisco. Her work has appeared in Multiplicity Magazine, Passager, Verse-Virtual, Poetry Breakfast, The Seattle Star, and elsewhere. She was selected by Western Rivers Conservancy to serve as the Poet-Protector of Deer Creek Falls in the northern Sierra Nevada foothills.
By Kristen Alexander
The toxic one once told me he avoids me at all costs.
“I wouldn’t be at lunch with you if it wasn’t for our boss.”
Just weeks after I met him, he stormed out and slammed his door,
refused to talk it out and said that ‘fluff’s’ not what he’s for.
Said he’d do things how I’d asked, called it malicious compliance.
I never saw a day he lacked that kind of veiled defiance.
In meetings, if I questioned him, his face turned pink with rage.
Our leaders called me paranoid, likely blamed it on my age.
The team (except the leaders) all agreed he was a problem,
but no one had the guts to speak – it wasn’t their job to solve them.
With him, I always felt unsafe, so guarded and defenseless.
I’ve never had a colleague seem so angry and defensive.
The leaders will reward these men for their toxic behavior,
But when a woman acts with strength, they rarely show her favor.
He fed on praise and accolades, the leaders on him doted.
He sopped it up like bread with broth, and then he got promoted.
Kristen is an Arkansas native who has worked at UAMS for almost eight years. She earned her bachelor’s in English literature from the University of Central Arkansas and her dual master’s in public health and public service from the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences and the Clinton School of Public Service. Her typical artistic medium is textiles, such as quilts, knitting, and fabric collage. She competes in the annual SOMArdi Gras beard competition, and has been featured in “Art from the Heart”, the UAMS art show, for her homemade beards. Her 2025 beard took the “Best in Show” prize – the first time a woman won the entire contest! Kristen also sings, plays ukulele, and volunteers as a docent at the Arkansas Museum of Fine Arts.
By Duane Anderson
They asked him if he was feeling okay
after having just donated a unit of blood,
being concerned with his well being
knowing that some bodies act differently
with a change of bodily fluids, especially
with the recent loss of a pint of blood.
He said that he thought so,
and then they went into their good cop,
bad cop routine with him,
responding that they would
soon know if he was lying
if his face began to turn pale,
or if he passed out on the donation bed.
It seemed you either felt fine, or you didn’t,
there wasn’t any in-between,
and their concern wasn’t meant to be
part of a guessing game with questions like
who’s on first, or what’s the meaning of life?
In the end, everything turned out well,
another happy ending,
walking out of the room without any assistance
into the lighted hallway to go back to his office,
later riding off into the sunset
as he went home that evening.
Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, Nebraska. He has had poems published in Fine Lines, Cholla Needles, Tipton Poetry Journal, and several other publications. He is the author of On the Corner of Walk and Don’t Walk, The Blood Drives: One Pint Down, Conquer the Mountains, and Family Portraits.
By Kara Smeltzer
How do I even live?
When do I start living?
Why do I feel like my life hasn’t started yet?
If I just finish school,
If I just get a job,
If I just get promoted,
If I just make this much money,
If I just win this award,
If I just get this grant,
If I just get my dream job,
THEN I’ll really start living.
But that can’t be right.
Time is passing passing passing, and it’s not coming back.
Life is being lived.
My life is happening, my life is now.
So live, so do, so be, so breathe.
Treasure, risk, love.
It’s time to life. You only get one.
Kara Smeltzer is a third-year medical student at UAMS. She enjoys propagating her houseplants, hiking, spending time with her family, and reading. She plans to apply to family medicine and work in low-resource communities both across the country and internationally.
By Evan Hicks
Skin—simple, yet complex.
Pigment—oh, why the rage?
Did we forget, or did we never learn
From the mistakes we made in 2023?
My pigment is the rage,
Melanocytes hidden beneath the surface.
Oh, why the rage?
A sin that spares no nation,
Doing no favors,
Across the Americas, North, and South Asia.
Is this life fair?
What did we do?
Is the melanin all to blame?
Oh, why the shame?
Am I to blame for the faults of the past?
Was 1964’s fight a mistake—Or was 2008’s hope misplaced?
Here lies the shame, hidden in my skin,
Dripping down my face.
Here lies my rage, bathing the keratinocytes,
Leeching to the surface.
They can no longer hide,
Exposed beneath your eyes.
Did the benefits outweigh the pain?
Was my acceptance the cost of shame?
Did the surface get too hot—
Were you burned by my protection?
My pigmented exterior, always a controversy,
Always a little inferior.
Pardon my rage.
Excuse my shame.
Am I to blame?
Melanin is my name.
Evan Hicks is a fourth year M.D./MBA candidate at the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences. He earned his undergraduate degrees in Biology, Chemistry, and Physics from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. His academic and research interests focus on dermatology, particularly skin of color and skin cancer in rural communities. He is passionate about bridging gaps in healthcare and improving dermatologic care and awareness in underserved populations. Outside of his professional and academic pursuits, he enjoys spending his free time hiking with his wife, Jocelyn, and their dog, Kylo.
