Pin-up with her back facing the camera
Angela M. Brommel
Glancing over her shoulder
her body s-shaped as her gown,
held together by three cotton stays,
falls open at the back.
The doctor brings in others
without first asking, showing off
her body in wonder, then tells her
she reads too much for her own good
when she asks a question.
Instead of tracking symptoms,
he asks about her happiness,
takes another photo for pedagogy
& marketing as a requirement
for his care and expertise.
She signs away her privacy
so he can advertise with her body
that belongs so much to her,
it’s a solitary cell.
Angela M. Brommel is a Nevada writer with Iowa roots, a Mystery Ranch Visiting Artist, and the current Clark County Poet Laureate. She is the author of two books, Mojave in July (Tolsun Books) and Plutonium & Platinum Blonde (Serving House Books). Her poetry has been published in the North American Review, The Best American Poetry blog, and many other journals and anthologies. She serves as Editor-in-Chief and Poetry Editor for The Citron Review. At Nevada State University, she serves as a Senior Advisor & Executive Director for the Arts and affiliate faculty.
http://www.angelambrommel.com
a diagnosis I
Marlena Chertock
probably, it was nestled in your bones
tempted out with tidbits of panic
sudden shock — palpitations
don’t tell me you never
plan how you’d escape,
take stock of the exits,
stand still with adrenaline
drowning your veins
perhaps it’ll happen,
that thing, whatever it is
sometimes you lie awake at night
dreaming of all the ways you can suffer
panic-neurons fizzling like a power line,
that’s a lot of electricity for a body
so you take more naps,
drained midday
pitter patter, dog’s nails on hardwood,
that’s good, focus on
sound, your cat’s purrs, the room surrounding you,
drop in to your body, be
present,
time your breaths,
stay here,
don’t leave this moment
please, take as much
time, space, sleep as you need
somewhen you’ll feel calmer, lighter,
don’t forget to
put yourself first,
trust in your emotions,
self soothe every day,
dear body, your mediocre is okay
Marlena Chertock is a lesbian, Jewish, disabled poet with two books of poetry, Crumb-sized: Poems (Unnamed Press) and On that one-way trip to Mars (Bottlecap Press). She uses her skeletal dysplasia as a bridge to scientific poetry. Her poetry and prose has appeared in AWP’s The Writer’s Notebook, Breath & Shadow, The Deaf Poets Society, Lambda Literary Review, Little Patuxent Review, Paper Darts, Paranoid Tree, Washington Independent Review of Books, WMN Zine, Wordgathering, and more. Find her at marlenachertock.com and @mchertock.
Day before Surgery
Peter Schireson
The afternoon news is angry, tribal—
I switch it off.
Dog looks up from his bed and we walk together
out into the yard’s swollen silence;
the sun is perched on the rim of the western hills,
bathing the valley in candied light.
I sit on an old wooden bench my father and I made.
I long for his company,
too easy to remember his death,
groping to remember his life.
An image bobs in my mind like foam on a wave—
my mother’s shadow on the hallway wall
outside his hospital room door,
pacing, pacing.
It’s December, the flowers lining the yard fading.
The odd bird chirrs.
Dog races around in his manic, plotless ballet,
jumps onto my lap, licks my chin.
Long shadows crawl across the grass
in the spreading dusk.
Peter Schireson has published three chapbooks and two full collections of poems, Sword of Glass and How We Met. He holds a Doctorate in Education from Harvard University and an MFA from Warren Wilson College. He lives in California with his wife, the Zen teacher Grace Jill Schireson.
GM, issue 4, April 2024
Revisionary Arts 