One of the nicest parts of our annual Celebration of Life was the publication of writings, poems and essays and short stories, written by our patients. We still have a few copies of the last book that contained some favorites from twenty years of COL. If you are interested, let me know, and I will send it to you.
Today's poem comes from Colleen who shared it in a nice email. It is from the Georgia Review:
by Cleopatra Mathis
They never expected me back.
Mice took the house,
burrowing into linens and tissues.
Vent or crack, they nestled in—
half an inch will do it. A bed
in the stove's insulation, clever
lacuna between the oven and fire.
I am not the same and they know it.
Afraid of what I might touch
wherever I reach, connections
severed, all the lines chewed.
My house is a sieve. In and out they go
with sunflower hulls, cartilage bits,
nesting, nesting . . .
Winter will shut me
in with the stink, trapped in a Havahart
I can't empty. It's a matter of waiting,
bone cells burned through, decaying.
Colleen went on to say this:
I called Missouri Review. The editor there told me about another poet, Jessica Jacobs, who had just published in their Fall '17 issue:
- When Your Surgeon Brought Snapshots to the Waiting Room
- Though We Made Love in the Afternoons
- from In the Days between Detection and Diagnosis
- When My Job Is to Wait
Here is a link for those: http://www.missourireview.com/archives/bbarticle/poetry-feature-jessica-jacobs/