By Laine Derr

She ties a string around my shoe
to remind me what day it is, 
I try to hold on, 
knowing right from left – memories.

She ties a string around my shoe, 
bows it slightly, in a bow,
sometimes I’m not sure of my memories, 
today or yesterday. 

When looking down 

what I know 
is there’s a string 
tied to my shoe, 
tied to this earth,
tied to her love.

Laine Derr holds an MFA from Northern Arizona University and has published interviews with Carl Phillips, Ross Gay, Ted Kooser, and Robert Pinsky. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming from Antithesis, ZYZZYVA, Portland Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere.

by Sean Young

Through long dog days of summer
Through sleepless winter nights
Through years of tireless care
Through sorrows and delights

Those shoes have traveled far
And borne their wearer well
To tend to newborn cries
And lift where others fell

They’ve willingly stepped in filth
When helping hands were asked
They’ve walked in solitude
At times they’ve even danced

The soles are wearing thin now
In places, the leather is peeling
The toes are rough and scuffed
From standing after kneeling

‘Ere long they’ll be replaced
Like those that came before
But for now they still serve well
At least a while more

Sean Young is a medical geographer and assistant professor in the College of Public Health, father of seven miscreants children, and burgeoning bard.

by Paula Martin

Meet me after midnight
at the place all lovers go
at the edge of names and words 
and of everything we know

out beyond the reach of others
above the cover of the clouds
where the earth smells technicolor 
and the air tastes like a sound 

we’ll step off the edge together 
your hand warm and strong in mine
and in the beauty of surrender 
our wings will open up in flight 

and we’ll lose the world outside us
except each other and the wind—
forgetting all that we remember
as we find our selves again.

Paula Martin is a writer living in Little Rock, Arkansas.

By Jessiela Roberts

His age and comorbidities were now rehearsed and repeated without effort daily,
His short years of existence now condensed to a list of clinical diagnoses,
It has been 20 days on the vent, and hypoxia persists like a homeless drifter,
Organs in shock, insulted by the invasion of unwanted bacteria,
High flow oxygen serves as a useless currency to a resistant lung,
Pneumothorax presents like an unwelcomed guest,
Sedation weaned off several days ago, yet he remains locked in time,
His mother visits often and tearfully whispers prayers beckoning him not let go,
Through her eyes I no longer saw a disfigured member of humanity,
I saw the baby she took home from the hospital and groomed him into a man,
It’s unnatural to think about burying your own child, she said,
Through meaningful communication she came to the point of accepting it was time to say a final goodbye
We gathered at his bedside, prayers lifted, memories of good times shared,
The nurse caring for him stepped away crippled by emotions untold,
She had developed a maternal connection through caring for him and her goodbye was also devastating,
Doubt and hope tap dance on her emotions,
Gathered at his bedside she rushed to disarm the alarms that broke the silence announcing his departure from this life,
For a brief moment we were all connected with his family through grief,
Some more complicated than others, each tear sad but equally important
In that moment medicine had meaning and it was not just another day of rounds.

Jessiela Roberts, M.D., is a Family Medicine Specialist in Fort Smith, AR. She is a graduate of Trinity School of Medicine.

By Kate Meyer-Currey

when you got with me I had no idea 
it could be a life-sentence you’re an 
armed robber holding me under false
imprisonment in my own body until 
I get your bally off and see if you’re 
just a mosquito, a runner fake cancer-
gangster or a real big OC man tumour 
ready to take me down you’ve gone OT 
in my left boob conch among its lumps 
cuckooing my cells feeding my veins 
like county lines waiting for reload so 
I’ve handed myself in to the hospital to 
get your mammogram mugshot and 
radiography recognition so you stand 
out in a microscope line up plus the 
biopsy of tissue you left at the crime 
scene every contact leaves a trace so 
either it’s a case of mistaken identity
wrong boob wrong time or you’re bang 
at it either way you’re the snake that 
grassed me up so when they send a 
shank team in to get you out I hold you 
to account for wrecking my gaff right 
now you’re bailed to my address and
I’m waiting on recall to hospital while 
you cook up more dodgy cells to make
me your cancer crack whore roll on
sentence date hope you go away for 
good for possession with intent to supply
and I get out on tag with breast care 
nurse probation to scare me straight
got a restraining order so stay in your 
dead pool breach my chest wall again 
and it won’t be double jeopardy no 
you’ll be dead man walking because
I’m living my Shawshank Redemption
fantasy, baby no word of a lie. 

Kate Meyer-Currey lives in Devon, UK. A varied career in frontline settings has fueled her interest in gritty urbanism, contrasted with a rural upbringing, often with a slipstream twist. Since September 2020 she has had over a hundred poems published in print and online journals, both in the UK and internationally. 

Her chapbooks County Lines (Dancing Girl) and Cuckoo’s Nest (Contraband) are due out in early 2022.

By Paulette Guerin

At 3:00 a.m. a storm whips the trees.
I roll over, breast aching.
I’ve weaned, am back on birth control. 
The pill has a warning label 
three pages long. Is the stab
a side effect of the hormones 
flooding into me to keep a baby out,
or is this phantom pain?
There’s no duct swollen with milk.
Maybe thrombosis, a favorite side effect. 
Or old tissue trying to be useful
for more than sex appeal. 
Do I wake my husband, 
ask for his familiar touch? 
The wind dies, day breaks. 
Outside, all the leaves have been stripped.

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 Mitchell Benton

A hungry stomach
When I finish morning rounds
I’ll take one box please

Mitchell Benton is a fourth-year medical student. He is a Little Rock native, and feels a special connection to this city. He felt compelled to write this poem because he feels poetry is a beautiful, yet effective means of communicating elements of everyday life. Box lunches are often a favorite topic of conversation, and he felt that a haiku could best communicate this element of life at the Little Rock VA. He would like to thank his parents and especially his sister, who initially inspired his love of literature. He would also like to thank his friends, Thomas Harkey, Clayton Davis, Luke James, Tony Chacko, Alex Cranford, Will Mitchell, and Jack Hagan.