The year turns four. / April weeps: the vootery / Of a heart too weak / To hold the stifling tears until December.
His breaths are heavy when we walk in. / Abdomen distended: / a large, perfect half-sphere…
Dr. Perkins explained to Elizabeth that she had three options: continue with the pregnancy and parent the child, continue with the pregnancy and pursue adoption, or discontinue the pregnancy and have an abortion.
There is no sound / like that of a heart breaking.
This house was once full of life / Layers of warmth and affection. / A fireplace, the heart of all
If you come into the hospital room before she arrives, you might miss the telltale signs of her existence. They are subtle — a soft sweater thrown over a chair for those drafty hospital wards or an absurdly expensive vegetable tray from the café downstairs on the patient’s table.
Hearts that beat, / Turn into hearts that don’t.
Medicine is a march, but it’s not like Sherman’s to the sea. You don’t burn what you leave, and the sea is always just beyond the next hill.
A few winters ago, you called me after a ski accident and announced / “I have fractured my tibial plate.”
I had felt strange during the week leading up to the last ultrasound. Pregnancy is a roller coaster of sensations, but that week had been off a little. I barely noticed the ultrasound tech rubbing the cold, blue gel on my massive belly. I wanted to hear that sound: that quiet, pulsing sound of my baby racing to be born.
We work in a hospital / Faithfully / Like the tomato plant / Serving a garden community
Draped the head and steadied the bed / For the life-saving aneurysm clipping, / I stop thinking of my former life.