Poem to be Published in Leaves of Ink: Low Tide

I am pleased to announce that Leaves of Ink has accepted my poem “Low Tide” for its July 14th publication. Will post a link when available! Look for it!

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Poetry Post-A-Thon: All Things Mundane

This one was published in Alaska Women Speak.

All Things Mundane

 

Years ago, my right eye lost sight

of the spring leaves. The ones I passed by daily,

unimpressed by their freshness, their greenness,

their joyful triumph over the barren winter,

as I carried my backpack in hand and

my university degree in sight.

 

Though, as spring turned to summer,

the eye clouded and blinded, and the

eye chart on my bare knees

was gray like water

in a used watercolor cup,

and my canvas was as blank as could be.

 

Uveitis, a strange word, never really explained

the summer’s lost colors

and the air conditioned exile

of photophobia

and sunglasses worn inside.

Nor could it prepare me for the steroids,

the pills,

and that last shot,

directly into my blue iris,

that brought back more than my vision.

 

As the fall leaves’ edges no longer blurred and

smudged like an eraser correcting a mistake,

but cut sharp around their respective

burnt orange and yellow perimeters,

the terminating season gave me their colors

and my vision a refined sharpness,

a rebirth of something that was once taken away:

a gift of all things mundane,

never to be taken for granted again.

 

Poetry Post-A-Thon: The Diagnosis

This one was published in Alaska Women Speak.

The Diagnosis

In my cave,

in the emergency room,

the doctor left the room dark,

with just a crack of light,

that bled in from the hall outside.

 

In just eight hours, my right eye had gone

from noticing the blurred hands

of the clock on the wall,

hands that smeared like ink on wet paper,

to the hot lightning bolt

of photophobia, pain that had me

holding my head in the dark,

and praying for no light.

 

For an hour, my fiancé and I

were left alone in the cave,

to watch shadows move underneath

the closed door frame,

as the eye specialist saw

a man who lost control of a chain saw

and injured his eye.

 

You’re lucky. He can see you too,

 

the doctor said,

as I imagined a slipped hand,

fragments of wood splintered in an iris,

a severed optic nerve,

and the blood that brought him to the hospital.

 

Later, the specialist caressed my hands,

as he scooped them away from my right eye.

I smelled the Dial soap

and wanted to believe him:

I understand this hurts.

I’m fairly sure of what you have,

but I have to be sure.

 

Then, like a piercing light saber,

the scope swept across my eye.

Before the pain could cut

through my brain, he stopped

and pronounced:

iritis, at a minimum.

 

The specialist dimmed the lights

and my right eye went closed again.

My left eye, the one that could still see,

saw the first doctor

who shadowed the specialist.

I knew it! His fist balled

in triumphant victory,

of a correct diagnosis,

of what I had lost.

Poetry Post-A-Thon: Someone May Have Said

This one was published in Alaska Women Speak.

Someone May Have Said

Someone may have said:

you need to have been lost once

to know when you have been found.

When you have lost bits and pieces

of yourself along life’s way.

When you are able to mourn what you have missed,

have experienced enough to realize its importance,

and have wished time could undo all your regrets.

 

Someone may have said:

you need to have been lost once

to know that you have been found.

That life is only lived through things lost,

a journey spent seeking things to gain,

when all that matters are the things you lost,

that were priceless and not for sale:

the things that made life worth living

Poetry Post-A-Thon: Urban Snack

This one was also published in the Yellow Chair Review

Urban Snack

The two ravens are dancing on the green plastic trash can

again. Maybe the same partners as last week, but who knows

they all look alike, with their jet black heads and plump chests

that puff out like chickens as they jump up and down, a rhythm,

a Morse code, maybe an ode to Poe, like toddlers anticipating

snack time and a handful of cookies. Today it is not the recycling day,

so they pull pizza shards out of the thin slit that gapes open,

because you were too cheap to upgrade to the next level, and

too lazy to put out that one last bag before the pick-up

last week, so the cavity rests overfilled. They caw at you

to remind you of this as they tap, tap, tap on the can and

chew crust like its a new type of earthworm

of the crunchier kind. Strips of hardened dough and flashes

of dried tomato sauce they rip until they find that last full

slice of garden vegetable you were too proud to eat,

that was two days old and flexible like rubber,

cheese topping like wax. They shred it with delight and fury

until you shut the living room curtains tight,

shutting out the brief daylight, as you pray in haste

for that humming truck in the distance to appear and

the garbage man to announce closing time, evicting the dancers

until next week.