The x-ray scans for lesions
spelling cancer on the ribs.
You’re at a hospital 1,200 miles away
and night’s played its last encore.
I’m alone in bed, the hour
before the birds remember to sing.
Adam named them once—
names that to them didn’t matter.
I want to cradle your curved bones.
I want God to put you to sleep,
remove whatever spins the pain
and fashion me around it.
I won’t give it words—the suffering’s
yours. I’ll open myself
and swallow it.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 6.
Paulette Guerin lives in Arkansas and teaches writing, literature, and film. Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Best New Poets, epiphany, Contemporary Verse 2, and Carve Magazine. A suite of 25 poems appears in the anthology Wild Muse: Ozarks Nature Poetry. She is the author of Wading Through Lethe and the chapbook Polishing Silver.Her website is pauletteguerin.com.
See all items about Paulette Guerin