All I Ever
Show me what I'm meant to do with this grief; Thought I should carry it, keep it close, like I've done with all I've ever known. The pressure to hold steady is taking its toll. For forever I've managed, kept it quiet, at a hush so low subdued violence. Been trying to help me. But I can't help it. It feels like it's all I've ever known. Acceptance came and went with the present. Left more than it took with it, and I mean the most, been sorting through, breathing it in meeting ghosts. Annotations scribbled in condensation keep record of the going, when it's tough, validation since it's been long enough. Been trying to help me. But I can't help it. It feels like it's all I've ever known... It feels like it's all I'll ever know. (Tia Reiser is based in Stony Point, New York, Tia Reiser has documented her experience through words since 2010. Initially, she turned to poetry in order to work through the ambiguous emotions she found difficult to externalize. Her poetry is authentically themed around mental health and learning to grow through her own vulnerability.)
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9/ 11
In Cather’s story, “Paul’s Case,” after the coach rides, the baths, the tortoise shell brushes, mirrors, satin sheets, chandeliers, plush carpets and ornate tables, after the champagne and caviar feast, Paul takes his baggage of flesh draped in soft clothes onto a final coach into final woods, and down to the tracks, and hurls himself into the path of a locomotive, choosing this form of death over poison, pistol, or rope. It seems he wants nothing to remain of Paul, wants Paul himself obliterated, wiped clean from earth’s map, no corpse, no likeness for mourners to view and close the lid on, and lower into an earthen hole. Now, a hundred years after Cather’s Paul, a father named Paul bids his family goodbye, not knowing it’s his final goodbye. A farewell in the dark: he leans to kiss his wife’s cheek, and then to the room of his sleeping son, also Paul (an only child of an only child), and leans and kisses his son’s brow and, with light approaching from the east, walks out his gate and leaves his familiar street, not knowing the finalities of these minutes remaining, unknown to him, this Paul of September 2001, and to others “on floor” when the plane crashes through, and the sky falls and turns into a celestial inferno. Nothing left of September Paul and those on his floor, nothing left of the floor, or the shoes he was wearing, or his teeth, his wallet, nothing left there. How could he have so much, one moment, and then not even his teeth, his hair, his family. How different his case from that of Cather’s brooding protagonist. (Peter Mladinic has published three books of poems: Lost in Lea, Dressed for Winter, and Falling Awake in Lovington, all with the Lea County Museum Press. He lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.) Fireflies
Acceptance is like that finger trap-- you have to relax into it, move with its weaves, or else you are stuck, like a swimmer in a rip current, resistance will wear you down. I don’t notice until I’m polished, shiny, and worn like the beads cascading in jubilation down Cross Street after I break my favorite bracelet against the mural that reads Welcome to Ypslilanti! How’s that for irony/ how’s that for a jaded, cynical nougat at the center of the poem? I bust my knuckles against a concrete wall because I’m one minute behind the parking meter, Ain’t that just my luck? And the most hated woman in Ypsilanti is walking away from me. The thing is, I would rather hurt myself, and so I do. I only call her vulture in the story I will tell later. It’s funnier that way/the way I will tell it. Nearly in ruins, I can cover any wound in ink and call it a joke. I can cover my mouth while crying and make it look like I’m in stitches. The quiet night comes in the form of many stars slowly blurring into focus. I bought the bracelet because it refracted light in blues and greens-- the beads I gather from the street twinkle in my palm like fireflies. Tomorrow I will string them together again, as I do. Ode to a Broken Rubber Heart, Drowned in the Rain Outside the Bar Here’s the thing about the heart: I kicked it down the road a ways, having time to kill before meeting you for happy hour. I brought the toy in and set it on the bar where it leaked its rainy juices, and the bartender set out two glasses for us, kindred spirits. We shared a pitcher on special and the heart told me about how it used to run on AA batteries, but now it just runs from AA meetings. We had a good laugh. My heart often feels like a ball of rubber bands poised to snap, but I did not tell the heart that, as you were just arriving, rain soaked and confused about my new friend. You didn’t want to touch the heart, and I couldn’t blame you. Couldn’t make you feel the moment surrounding us, sanguine music and strange chatter. Couldn’t stub out the cigarette you used easier than air. Couldn’t make you flinch when the heart lobbed itself onto a barstool and said the next round of shots was on it, a $20 bill sprouting suddenly from its left ventricle. We both reached for the numbing agents and I am not sorry for inoculating my skin so when it tears I can be ready, so when scabs grow I can pick them absentminded in the car, watching myself from the backseat, so I can tell the rearview mirror to do as I say, not as I do. Two lights shrinking back into the night: me and you. Here’s the last thing: I have already lost it, the heart. It was a mistake to underestimate the rubber thing to be less than a metaphor for everything missing, and so it must be gone from me to mean anything at all. Trauma Response I have revenge fantasies involving vaseline on the handles of all your doors. I don’t want to kill you, only scare you into doing what I want. A warning shot. A doe and her fawn study me as I walk by on a path, And she could kill me, but she doesn’t. She has more mercy than me, wishing me well, And asking, curiously, “what are you afraid of?” I almost say, “myself.” (KD Williams is a nonbinary writer. They teach at local colleges and received their undergraduate degree from the University of Michigan. They earned an MFA from Stony Brook Southampton where they received the Stony Brook Short Fiction Award. Their work has been published in The Southampton Review and other publications.) Bird Song in my Pediatric Office
COVID Pandemic, 2020 Canaries should sing effortlessly their voices surprising from beings so small It is what I love about teenagers unafraid and clear-eyed they tell us what we hadn’t thought to notice some more crow than songbird, Stellar’s jay boisterous beside warblers. I coo, dove-like, encourage the chatter. These seers might trill and call, sharing the hawk’s view on impending storms; or sometimes chirp joyfully, bedazzled by shiny bits they collect like reassurances. But lately instead of peeping I hear screeching or worse than that silence. Driving my son to soccer practice Remember that park, he asks, where we used butterfly nets to catch dragonflies? I envision fragile wings crushed by eager hands, callous mesh. My heart would not have forgotten. It sounds lovely, I say. We did, he insists, I dream about it: that stream, and yellow flowers. We had nets, I know, a gift meant to tickle a child’s fascination, entice him to chase flight. But no, he never ran after that particular magic. He would have played with mud, drowning shoes and pantlegs making sun-bright spray kicking the water, delighted. Now he is twelve and though we drive to and fro after a different dream, his thoughts rarely escape into daylight. Remember? he asks. I want to say yes - but no, my son, I only gave you tools and soil. What you capture in sleep is your own luminescence. (Claire Unis MD MFA, is a pediatrician and author of several published personal essays. I earned my MFA while in medical school and now teach literature and writing classes to my fellow physicians as part of a clinician wellness program aimed to counteract burnout among my medical peers. More information about me is available on my website, www.claireunis.net.) Lost and Found
On a day in my life as I wandered around I discovered a window that said Lost and Found. “Excuse me.” I said. “My fingers are crossed. I hope you can help me. My self has been lost. I once thought I saw it. It can’t have gone far But it’s straggled off and it’s truly bizarre.” “What does it look like?” the nice lady said. “I just can’t remember but I know that it’s fled.” With a sweet helpful smile she reached for a shelf and picked up a limp rag. “Could this be your self?” With a cursory glance a quick recognition I knew that I found it and accomplished my mission. “Malnourished,” she said. Please feed it a feast you’d better take care before it’s deceased. You’ve spent a long time as a wandering searcher but now is the time to coddle and nurture.” I took my limp self Held onto it tight and made it a promise no sorrow or fright I fed it and loved it we learned how to play. It grew brighter and happier with each passing day The crisis averted it’s just oh so grand as me and my self skip off hand in hand. Better Days
I prefer quiet, early mornings. A cup of tea and a good book. These are the little things that Remind me of life’s simple joys. This is the feeling I’ve worked Hard for, a feeling that I once Thought was unattainable for me. There was a time when I thought that pure Happiness didn’t exist. And that the only constant Was never ending pain. I’d like to say those days Are behind me but they show up in different ways. What keeps me going Are moments like these. (Bio: Phrieda is a writer and blogger. She has written poetry for years before making the decision to share her work with a wider audience.When she isn't writing, she loves exercising, getting lost in a good book, and binge watching television on the weekends. She takes inspiration from her own life and credits poetry in helping her find her voice.) Girls’ Locker Room
Ninth grade gym second class of the morning stories escape tiled shower room, floating with echoes of hot water against the flesh of young girls. Air fills with stories of fresh encounters. A taste of cherry coke on a boyfriend’s tongue, naïve mark on neophyte neck. How luscious to have red apple memories. A first kiss, warm palm trembling across newly emerging breasts. I listen with aching envy, face pressed so closely to open locker, the reek of dirty socks and tennis shoes coat my hair. I long to burst from the stink of cover, balance upon the stage of narrow, grimy bench to reveal with anguished howl how grit from a freeway underpass scored the skin of my back as I strained beneath the weight of a dark-haired boy with a red car murmuring in darkness he loved me, but never came back. The True Cost of Things When I walked out on my second husband for good, at the real end of it, I was rash enough to stand and simply watch him suddenly boneless, slide down the wall coming to rest on the pale kitchen floor, fingers trembling and splayed as if he feared sinking deep into the linoleum. Heart hard and dark as our blacktop driveway, I gazed as he went slightly mad. And watching him. And watching him I think, “Good china. Dinette set. Car.” And consider meeting my new lover for lunch. Frantically working to avoid the brush of middle age, I am busy with endless, useless errands, until my eldest son comes home to introduce a lovely young woman. Hand softly cupping her slim brown neck, his eyes fill with fresh promise. And watching him, and watching him, I am frantic to lunge back in time. Beg unearned mercy. Plead a gentle word. Search, try, claw at anything, feathers, bones, my own blood, anything at all to ward away this young woman’s shining ability to melt my son to nothing while considering what else she might do. Dinner Sacrifice My first meal without you arrives topped by two shrimp, a nestled sacrifice, whole shells, countless insect legs. I would drop them on your plate, uncomfortable with grotesque little bodies, browned in oil and seasonings. I risk a glance as other diners dig away, burrowing meat from cleft, thin casing. Defying solitude I poke one bug body curled like a new moon, hiding from my poised fork. Unaccompanied, even dinner is awkward. With resolve, I play the part of any nonchalant seeker of shrimp, lobster stalker, crab connoisseur. Grab the hapless finger-sized nubbins, all garlic and pepper. Discover ridged flesh juicy. Worth the tricky push and pull to deliver a bit of pink essence to my tongue-- I turn to the side, ready to tell you of my adventure, receive my reward. Waiter, dark haired, young, waits to pour more wine, smiles as if I please him. My hand raises, covering glass, shoulders tight beneath new blue dress. I bring another bite to my mouth. This is when you would lick the butter from my lips. Main course untouched, I scrape black wooden chair pay swiftly, hustle out the door, clutching purse, expecting to be robbed. (Sharon Thompson struggles with generational Bipolar Disorder and childhood abuse. She began writing seriously partially as therapy in an inpatient psychiatric hospital and continues to face mental health challenges through her writing. Thompson retired after twenty years of teaching High School English. She now lives with her terrier, Molly Blue, in Temecula, California, near San Diego near her two grown sons.) Ogle Demented Killer App
Septuagenarian’s first foot in the grave memory now increasingly escaped me I try three energy solutions -- prescribed thyroid followed by Sudafed then cocaine none of which’d come close to helping so I came up with one solution: insert a chip into my brain that’ll Google what is lost. 2. DEMENTIA OF THE PREOCCUPIED i. Aging Pawn On Chess Board Once upon a time I figured it would be the big C crab gambit that grabbed my pancreas bad before carcinoma spread painfully into spine then other bone, lung, liver but so far bishopric offices seem to be proven wrong -- even though both as first-born knight to ninety-nine-year-old king plus hundred and two-year-old queen, as well as a rookie physician, I should long ago have noticed unanticipated scenarios (in their cases blind-deafness or dementia though in mine bad spine-hips, vertigo) which inconveniently intervene to muddy up life before god knows who-what definitive terminal endgames may bring for final solutions to all of our sandcastles’ good night sweet prince/ss downfalls. ii. Del Monte Rest Home Given warden surprises, doppelgangers and noms de guerre, not aiming for a feathered edge, vagrant impulses no longer couched, jazzed to divo inmate teeth, Pops works the dementia unit’s chintz rows of pitted divans overflown by bouts of pithed fruit cocktail ferment. (Gerard Sarnat MD’s authored HOMELESS CHRONICLES, Disputes, 17s, Melting Ice King. Gerry’s published by Gargoyle, Columbia, Penn, Harvard, Brown, Stanford, Dartmouth, Main Street Rag, New Delta Review, Northampton Review, New Haven Poetry Institute, Buddhist Poetry Review, American Journal Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Brooklyn Review, LA Review, San Francisco Magazine, New York Times. Mount Analogue selected KADDISH for nationwide-distribution Inauguration Day.) gerardsarnat.com During the First Illness
Today the cabin smells of tobacco and cedar-- Bartok colors the silence-- To the east the mountains stoop into nearby woods-- To the west the leftover sun plays across the sky-- Turning north I kill the pain with whiskey, as laughter spills from my mouth, like water dripping from a crack in the ceiling-- Facing south I sit upon a log, calling your name with a desolate voice from my alley of desperation, calling to a forgotten muse-- I notice autumn watching me like an old man, wearing bright clothes, sitting by an open window, toothless and haggard-- I attempt being professional, counting my days like pieces of gold, listening to the concert of leaves, fading in motion, like the last circular cycle of a disconnected fan, flapping the breeze gently. Another toast to another day, knowing that those my age are acting younger than I … even my fingernails feel the pain. Looking for Normal How to put normal in a frame when even words don’t fit? It’s an old dialogue from the last century. It’s the screaming youth in the dead of night on the corner of East Biddle & St Paul Streets, in the early morning shadows, screaming from the last century, hoping for someone to hear (Timothy Resau is an American writer of fiction and poetry, originally from Maryland. His career has been in the international wine industry. He's currently resides in coastal North Carolina, and he’s just completed a novel, Three Gates East. His writings have appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, Eskimo Pie, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Down in the Dirt.) Second Teeth
My psychiatrist is not a psychiatrist, nurse practitioner serving a generally docile population. I walk in again with old needs and new knowledge understand the implications of the screening questionnaires lie to avoid repetitive warnings boring invocations to get help when you’ve tried and can’t. I respect her advice, her empathy; but I think I understand the metabolism of the drugs I take their interactions their excretion and by god do I understand their side effects better than she does. I love her but I need more, higher-level care treatments she can’t prescribe referrals she can’t make. Before I got my Step 1 score You may have heard you can be last in your class, still called “doctor.” Not mentioned, the tension that comes before, the names they’ll call you, “lazy, inadequate,” the warnings they’ll give of their power to force dangerous exposures, the stigma against you always brought up, ascribed to someone else. What I say is don’t do it, don’t go through it: if you’re not a normie maybe you can’t, but even if, it’s not worth it, stress and regulations overween. ("Wolfie" is a 4th year medical student at Stony Brook University with a severe case of Bipolar Disorder Type 1 (in remission), who is hoping to go into psychiatry.) |
The Beautiful Space-
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