Notes of citrus and bleach
mingle in the air
tangled in the breath
I heave from my body
and beg to run for help.
There is no help.
Only,
a small dollar-store pad
a woman before me left behind
on the toilet paper dispenser
for me in my moment of need
like she was whispering
"It'll be okay, love"
and the cool air
blowing down
into the metal stall
of the junior college bathroom
I bled in.
Shades of gray and white
on a blurry, grainy screen
greet you,
along with the darkest gray
void,
which reminds this is
just
a check-up, check-in
The celebratory TV is off,
no partner holds your hand
smiling for you —
only a 22 year old
technicality
apologizing to winces
that are deeper than surface
The unmistakable yet too slow
whoosh thump,
whoosh thump,
whoosh thump,
whoosh thump,
forgets the impossibilities
before recognizing
its own heartbeat
The quick glance to
rolling cart screen
prompts an explanation: "it's
just
the blood flow
to your ovary…"
The quiet acknowledgement
sounds sadder than silence.
Jokes fall flat
when wombs are empty.
Each question feels pointed,
like finger
accusations,
and loaded guns.
The answers are low,
no,
I don't know.
Results are downloaded,
sent to someone —
boxes to be checked
and sent again
to another copay monument,
another claim denied,
another's eyes and hands
on my insides
before I know what they do.
Two blonde hair and blue eyed
carbon copies of you and your wife
look up at me from the sidewalk.
A third little, with brown hair
and brown eyes, stares me down.
She looks like she could be mine
in another timeline,
one where life bursts from me
instead of sadness seeping out.
She’s 4 years old now.
Proudly holding out her fingers,
showing me she can count.
Your other babies play,
oblivious of turmoil
rising to the back of my throat.
Your wife tells me where
you live and I promise myself
to never forget or visit that part of town.
I recall fear taking over
when seeing men resembling you
in town grocery stores.
I would chide myself for running
when your cologne found my nose
in aisles near baby clothes.
Now I wonder if it was true,
if my body remembered, for once,
how to escape your grip.
Still, brown hair baby girl
watches me curiously,
as she tells me how old her sister is.
Open mouthed,
I hear words leaving me.
“How sweet. What a beautiful family.”
And I mean it.
And I envy it.
And I hate it.
I envision her caught in your web,
somewhere between the table saw
and the industrial fan.
The sounds of the outside world
dull in my pounding ears.
I am back in that high school bathroom
body shaking too hard to still,
cries caught behind my teeth.
I think I subjected her to this.
I swallow down the self-hatred
like I swallowed the permission you sought.
It all tastes bitter,
like your breath
and your half-hearted apology
that told me you couldn’t
help yourself.
Original Poetry Submitted by Kaitlin Hoskins
Original Poetry Submitted by Johnny Butoric
I don’t remember the order of things
At least not how they were told to me
I can’t recall if I was there when it happened
But I think he wasn’t home when I got back
From fourth grade class
Someone told me he was at the hospital
Later (it must have been later)
He told me that he turned the water up hot
But it still felt icy cold to the touch
That is until he lowered himself into the bath
And felt it was scalding hot
I think he made a joke about burning his balls
But he was smart enough to know something was wrong
He must have gotten the infection from a shit-filled
Cellar in a client’s derelict basement after the septic went
Even in coveralls, he was still wading in hip deep
And he was missing a kidney and his spleen
On account of some stupid drunk shit he did as a teenager
(Riding on a truck’s running board instead of being inside when it hit a tree)
So it made his body more susceptible to disease
By the time someone took my single-digit self to see him,
Everyone could only go in to see him if they wore head-to-toe
Safety garb—for whatever reason, I remember the paper booties the most—
Because, well, meningococcal meningitis can be contagious
His limbs were purpling to black and shriveled like a mummified monkey
Or a particularly mortifying MacGuffin
The body protects the core at the expense of extremities
And this was a pretty extreme situation given
A bacterium was trying to kill my father’s brain
It was all pretty intense, and the doctors shuffled us
Out of the room pretty quickly
I don’t remember much else about that day other than
The helicopter that LifeFlighted him to OSU Medical Center
I’ve never been so close to one before or since.
The pills we took to protect our brain-skins
Turned our urine orange for about a week
It would have been funny if not for the spectre looming
—What it meant if the medicine failed.
The last time we saw him while in the depths
Of a medically-induced coma
He lay upon the bed, gone to the world
A husk kept alive by machines wearing the shadows of my father
As I sat eating comically-large broccoli florets
Soaked through with rich, salty butter
(Because I was small, and weak, and needed to grow stronger—I was nine)
He did not speak,
He did not wake,
He did not judge,
And so, we got along.
I remember riding home and being stuck
On the highway for all night due to the blizzard of ‘96
Caking Cbus in glittering white
As thundersnow rippled across the peat-bog sky
I remember, too, that after hours of stop-go-traffic, we stopped
At Taco Bell:
They were promoting their Sizzlin’ Bacon Menu
And I seem to remember having a bacon-ranch taco of some kind
So it must have been the Chicken Club burrito
I remember eating bacon in a tortilla in the cold
I remember because it was only available for a limited time.
Aren’t we all.
We visited OSU Medical Center several more times
To see what condition his condition was in
As we moved from home (we can only let you stay for the weekend)
to home (just for a few weeks)
to home (just as long as you don’t mind sharing a bed with Sooner)
And several months later he—
—Was awake
And high as Delphi
His reality was skewed and he didn’t know
That all he knew, and grew, and loved was gone:
His body, his strength, his health, all soaked
Into the sheets of his sickbed, amputated
By the best medicine the state of Ohio could offer.
Meningitis, remember, from all those dorm room scares—my reality—
Is infamously ravenous, a ravager of form, a corruptor of souls
Eating at the seat of glory from the outside in—
Truly, it was a miracle he was even still alive.
And while he lived, he used the nonexistent fingers
Of his hand to try and hand me a hotdog.
I pretended to eat at air and enjoy a phantom ballgame
As tears soaked my hands and the fabric of my shorts.
I think you should know,
Sooner didn’t mind that we stole her bed, but she was a good dog.
Eventually he came home.
Eventually we once again had a home.
And I didn’t recognize the stranger
Haunting my house
A shadow in the shape of my father
Fuzzy at the edges,
celluloid ghoul
Held together with cigarette burns and spite.
Usually winter storms peter out by the end of February
But this sou’easter came out of nowhere
Schools and businesses delayed then closed in quick order
As accumulation piled on and on and on
And I don’t remember when the power went out,
But I do remember having to put the milk out in the snow
The drift that wasn’t two feet deep against the walls of our house
Looking out into the depth of the night, the only sound
Beyond the warble of the crank radio was the ghostly
Whistling of the wind,
The weight of icy power lines whipping and failing,
And trees expanding, splitting, cracking, falling to the forest floor
Level two and three snow emergency greeted us
As we awoke from the swarm of comforters we gathered
To conserve heat in the cave of the living room
In the daylight you could admire the horrifying beauty
Of crystals swept and hanging from every surface
Affecting all the known world as that of a palace of ice
Glistening pale blue spikes both delicate and deadly
Somewhere something heavy breaks, collapses to the ground.
We decide to do something stupid and drive out into the white
To Tim and Kay’s house out in the boonies
Careful to avoid any fallen wires like lightning fanged serpents
Whipping across the road waiting for electrician’s hypnotizing hands
But more hoping just not to wind up in a ditch, despite the waning winds
We got there safe within the sound
And in luck, that old swan monster was nowhere to be seen.
A generator burned outside, powering the crackling fireplace in the den
As we sipped hot cocoa—me—and whisky with a hint of apple—them—(Because I was the designated DD for one)And so we sat and talked and kept company listening
To the gorgeous glittering, sharply shattering world around us.
Day three we sat in our flood of throws as we made shadow puppets
On the surface of the ceiling with the camping lanterns
It was the most fun we had together in a long time
Because there was nothing to fight about, no distractions,
No worries outside of getting by
And we smiled and we laughed and rabbits ran scattered through plastered fields
And somewhere in the house the power came on.
We paused and ignored it, enjoying the time we were having
But the CD-deck cycled through and Mick Jagger crooned
Tiiiiime is on my side
Yes it is
And we went back to the normal, the way things were
The way they always were before
As our smiles fell and the laughter faded
And somewhere something hundreds of years old
Shattered, fell, and broke.
Do you remember when
quicksand
Seemed the greatest existential
Threat to your very well-being?
That was before you learned about
clowns,
aliens,
monsters,
alien clown monsters,
razorblades in apples on Halloween,
them,
kidnappers offering free candy,
the Unsolved Mysteries theme song,
marihuana,
Satan!?,
coral snakes,
automatistic spiritual possession,
planchettes,
that poor girl down in Sarasota, Florida,
being there one day and dead in a drunk driving hit-and-run the next,
Lyme disease,
falling down a waterfall and landing a dozen feet twice,
falling into a hot spring that renders the meat from your bones within a minute,
falling in love,
falling for his apologies,
falling into the sky as your consciousness disintegrates and finally feeling at peace.
Original Poetry Submitted by Johnny Butoric
Telling it fells
Maybe a little indulgent
Even self-absorbed
Possibly misremembered
Like when the cat fell through the porch
Or a bird knocked on the back door
Even so, perhaps
Someone benefits
From knowing
I learned to discern
Drunkenness
By the age of five or six.
I had many uncles
All but one a drunk.
Some to the point of homelessness
Some only occasionally so.
I had strict instructions
From my grandmother.
When they could come in
And when they must sleep
On the front porch glider.
I liked some more so than others.
Those I liked I often allowed in
Even when I knew I shouldn’t.
Uncle Teddy
With his guitar and lovely voice.
Sometimes I made Uncle Slim
Stay outside
Even when I knew
He was only a bit tipsy.
My grandmother would
Always give them a good meal.
And my grandfather’d
Pass them a dollar
When she wasn’t looking.
Their visits amounted to a little excitement
Every now and a bit.
And provided a brief occasion
When I called the shots.
Original Poetry Submitted by Leslie Worthington
12am knows all my ramblings
Moments I never got to absorb
All the things I couldn't handle
Slowly making me feel torn
1am knows all my regrets
"Why'd you ever think that'd work?"
Stupid thinking, clumsy actions
I make myself sound more absurd
2am knows all my heartbreak
Everything that makes me cry
Wondering if I'll ever find it
Wondering when it'll be my time
3am knows all my confessions
Hundreds of secrets bottled up
Too ashamed to tell the sunrise
Too afraid I can't be loved
4am knows all the chaos
All my emotions swirling around
Trying hard to keep my composure
Not have another mental breakdown
5am knows very little
By this time I'm quite undone
Momentary peace for the morning
Until the clock strikes 12:01
Lavender fields in the morning dew
A light that shines and shows the truth
Waking from this desperate sleep
Tired of wrestling in this deep
I'm almost ready to risk it all
To jump and fly, even if I fall
I thought my heart would never mend
I didn't think I could feel again
Right in front of me, you're standing there
Sun kissed face and side swept hair
If I fell would you reach out, catch me?
Will this be a good thing or another tragedy?
I know it sounds silly to be scared to talk
But I'm shaking and sweating at the very thought
What if I don't look nice, don't smile right, waste her time?
What if I've just messed this up in my mind?
Original Poetry Submitted by Brodie Boyd
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