Issue 10 – Poetry

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

So here he is,
stepping into the sunlight,
missing half a leg
but defiant.

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

It has happened before. 
Remember the flood.
Remember Atlantis.
Some do.

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.

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

I miss those emails 
you sent me:
called me licorice boy

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.

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;

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