Zhaohui Su

How do we manage the pain
Before it manages us?
How do we control the grief
Before it controls us?

How do we better the side effects,
Before they better us?
How do we outlive the treatments
Before they outlive us?

How do we clear the debts
Before they clear us?
How do we absorb the tolls
Before they absorb us?

How do we frame the fallout
Before it frames us?
How do we conquer the betrayal
Before it conquers us?

How do we change our mindset
Before it changes us?
How do we lead the storyline
Before it leads us?

How do we shape the tides
Before they shape us?
How do we define the zeitgeist,
Before it defines us?

Carson Haller

The scent of young blood, spilt by a gun.
This summer’s been hot, so I curse at the sun.

His eyes give a flutter; he almost comes to.
Now he’s there, but not really, and there’s nothing to do.

Sweating, I awake. Oh, torturous dream.
When I close my eyes, I can still hear him scream.

Though I’m not one to grieve, he’s never quite left me.
I’m tasked to see death, yet to lend hands—a blessing.

The weight of a life is so much to hold.
I’m stuck grieving that child with no chance to grow old.

A boy had his future ripped right from his chest.
I wish he’d forgive me. Then maybe I’d rest.

When I met that boy, we shared bated breath.
Both doctor and patient defeated by death.

His destiny ripe, never to reap.
Save a minute or two before I can sleep.

Addie Luo

Squinting mice, grooming mice
A cage of four, anesthetize
Clean incision, neatly closed
Frankenstein cells in one large dose
Domes of tumor, kingly surgical
xenografted hope, examined survival

Slouching mice, sniffing mice
Cancerous and immortalized
Studded growth they can’t reject:
A manufactured defect
Drink data as champagne, coronate
Charming sacrifice, celebrate

Sleepy mice, stiffened mice
Broken necks, bulging eyes
Dislocate for a good death;
Lest it was short of breath
Hang the morgue bags on our scepter
Jot down the numbers for impact factors

Bio

Addie Luo is a science research technician based in the Pacific Northwest. She began writing poetry in 2025, and has been receiving editorial feedback from Wendy Bourgeois.

Alex Soto

It’s one in the morning—I’m awake with fear,
She’s tearing my character down, trying to harvest a tear.
It’s two in the morning—I’m hollow with blue,
My sobbing and sorrow are met with her “who?”
It’s three in the morning—I’m sleeping no more,
Replaying her actions, eyes fixed on the floor.
Footsteps drift slowly, descending the stairs,
Bracing for “Round Two,” I’m caught in her glares.
Her head round the corner—a tilt and a shrug,
Almost a smile, “Can I have a hug?”
I sigh and say yes, arms open and numb,
Empathy’s poison I’ve willingly become.
I cling to the warmth, but the truth is unknown,
Day four from the ward, but my wife hasn’t shown.
Well, she must be. Because who is holding me so tight?
Bipolar depression is. My Wife’s gone, gone with My Light.

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.