Corona, Corona

Musical Selection: Cheryl “Pepsii” Riley|Thanks for My Child

Corona, Corona

Knowing Unknown

I know not the pain a mother feels,
the concern or worry
releasing her child
into a world that
plagues, disrupts, bends, & changes
without c a u s e
the torture it must lay
on her heart, the constant
ripping of it breaking
from her body,
shattering to the ground
left in pieces.

she stands at the window
eyes watching the cars
counting them as they pass . . .
which one will carry
death to her door?
a phone call after
every shift — the sound of
a familiar voice, letting
her know the day is done.

there is no sleep, she presses
her hands against the wall,
feels the pulse of
the room on the other side
and wishes her child
was within reach,
far away from the
d a m a g e s
of the wicked.
she pulls back
pain instead.

I know not, mother —
how you suffer,
how you kneel on
bruised knees, prayerful
for a positive outcome.
the vessels from your womb,
servicing in places many
miles away from you,
wear their wounds proudly.
yet, you still harbor
fear, unable to dissect
the discomfort or turmoil
and remove them from
your soul.

I know not . . .
I cannot know.

Originally published via Medium.



Fading Away/Courtesy of Kimran Farooq–DeviantArt

Strength is uncommon
It manifests in
Presumptuous ways, claiming
To feed your tortured soul

Yet you lose inches
Of a dying heart
To an ill-fated diagnosis
That the world’s most
Renown devotees of medicine
Pencil in on a chart

You become the medical
Instead of a human being
You become the thing
Before them, but they
Still think you are alive.

You haven’t been
In years.

The Glory of the Forgotten

Courtesy of Pinterest

She is sitting in a pale, dust-ridden chair, rocking herself to obtain a deeper sense of calm. Her Primary Care Physician believes she is showing signs of Bipolar Disorder. She wants to refer her to a therapist, someone she trusts. The air in the room is thick with guilt. A faulty door swings open and a nurse in tattered scrubs alerts the doctor to her next patient who has been waiting for fifteen minutes. 

“Danielle, I have to go. I have another patient waiting. I will call Dr. Dominguez myself and schedule a consultation for you. Are Fridays still best?”

But, Danielle is drowning.  The rocking chair is now a carousel and she cannot halt the spinning. There is no sound. The muffled words of Dr. Norman attack her ears but leave no depth. She is trapped within herself, bracing for glory that does not come. 

“Danielle?! Are Fridays still best for you?”

“Yes.  I’m sorry, Dr. Norman. I didn’t hear you. I was…”

“I know, you were not here. *sighs* We will get you better in due time. I will call Dr. Dominguez this evening. Make a follow up appointment with Clara at  the checkout desk for three months. I want to check your iron and ferritin levels at that time. And… your weight.”

Danielle shifts on the plastic bed in the paper thin gown. She gathers her things one by one and returns her outfit to her body. Facing the world is never easy. At least today, someone listened. 

Someone finally listened.