Poetry

Monthly Post

Is it obsessive-compulsive behavior to post here each month for the sake of writing somewhat regularly? Or is it simply hope? Perhaps this- once a source of joy, a shared mission, will feel that way again, somehow.

another month

by which to create

Representation

If you step in the logical flaw rabbit hole

of proclaiming to represent

ALL PEOPLE WITH DIABETES!!!!!,

then the least you can do is

own it.

 

Was your six-figure “non-profit executive” salary there

to represent Shane Patrick Boyle

when Go Fund Me fell fifty dollars short?

 

Have you ever seen a human being in DKA,

breathing labored, blood poisoned?

Would you look her in the eye

and still have the audacity to suggest,

“This could all be easier

if you just took the bus to Walmart,

bought cheap insulin there,

took a wild guess at a 3:52 am dose

of one of the most powerful Rx’s on earth.”

 

Her breathing is labored.

Her blood is poisoned.

There is no more room on this bus.

 

I’ve written long enough

to know that I, too,

have made mistakes.

The ‘disease warrior’ metaphors

The representation claims

Forgetting to check my privilege

at the coat rack

Running my mouth too loudly

to listen

 

How can we pretend to represent

all people with diabetes

when we have strong Wi-Fi connections

the acquired ability to read and write

the color of the skin we were born with

the restocked fridge,

while so many of our diabetes brothers and sisters

are dying slowly and painfully

without access to the prescribed air

we breathe?

 

Our stories are the only ones we can tell fully.

To say otherwise is to snuff out others’ lights

which have already borne enough pain.

 

There has to be a better way

to make room on this bus.

 

 

This is also for

writing shitty, third-string poetry. boldly dubbing it ‘poetry’ anyway. then rhyming poetry with poetry in a so-called poem. knowing that we all have to start somewhere and this is your clean slate. the previous writer at the coffee shop gifted a warm window seat, the free Wi-Fi password, and a slightly weathered stick of chalk, neon pink. the freckles on our fingertips glow in the dark.

This is for

the unpublished drafts

the phone notes

the changing of the font

and calling that a poem

the “for what it’s worth I’m sorry”

if sorry could be plural

for existing, maybe

for being there, sometimes

for not being there, enough

for showing up

and talking down

for myself

for others

for hitting “publish”

because your brain demands

at 11:33 pm Eastern Standard Time

that this is right

that this has to get out

that these prepositions

go against everything

that middle school grammar book said

when you read it obsessively

to prepare for a pop quiz

so you could always be the best

on paper, that is

 

but you don’t care

about those silly rules

anymore

 

Que será, será.

The Good Samaritan Lot

“This parking lot is open until full.

Brought to you by the Church

across the way. Give what you can.

Pay it forward. Come again.”

Despite the red paint peeling back,

the sign still read All Are Welcome.

 

I sobbed in my car

while the waitress

from the pretentious lunch

we’d attended

twenty minutes prior

smoked her cigarette

and pretended not to notice

the rivers of mascara

flowing down my face.

 

The waitress “didn’t notice”

not because she was cruel,

but because of my stubborn pride

and all. The cigarette ash

fell to the green earth.

 

I drove away, wanting to hit the gas

but circled back to where I started

Stuffed ten dollars into the donation box

 

And for the first time that long-ago day,

it was enough.  It was simply enough.

 

 

 

Explanation of Benefits

THIS IS NOT A BILL!!!
(Thank God)
This is simply the preface to the bill
so that you can be prematurely pissed off
about who will be taking away your money

 

The EOB outlines the costs
What you owe the doctor
What your insurer owes… someone
What debt your existence owes
to a society that doesn’t really care

 

That Advil pill at the office even though
there’s Advil in a Ziploc in your purse?
Ten dollars. The cup you pee in?
Five ninety-five per ounce
Don’t spill it when you close the window.

 

Does a smile at the reception desk
bankrupt the operation? Imagine a world where
insurance cards do not dictate our worth-
where compassion is doled out, unmeasured
and it’s okay to come back for seconds.

 

Can we quantify the waiting room tears?
The traffic, the tropical island vacation
with family swapped out for appointment slots.
The doctor who is not seeing her lunch break
will see you now, instead.

 

You both are tired of fighting
a system that feels it is better to explain
“benefits” than to explain why
none of this is fair, why your pain
will not break with the fever.

 

We can’t explain why the cancer spread,
its roots strangling the beating heart.
We can’t explain the silent prayers
sent up in parking garages late at night
when the city lights blink off.

 

The explanation of benefits is simple, really:
Sit with us, outside on the sun-bleached bench
On what our brains will dub the Bad News Day
where the whole world stops and all that is left
are the parking garage prayers said outside, together.

 

Notes

My friend with a high IQ and a poor memory
carries a journal in his back pocket
in which he scrawls seemingly-important
information for the future
gathered from local bars
in the present.

 

Liked: new hipster IPA at Main St. Pizza

Disliked: third slice of pepperoni following 7 new hipster IPAs on a work night

 

I’m big on notes, too.

 

Neon yellow Post-Its decorate my cubicle
Piecing together someone else’s life
Confirmed PTSD stressor: IED blast
resulting in multiple casualties from unit

 

The note in my head remembers that disinfectant
only works on wounds that are visible

 

The notes in my purse
are things I’d like to say at therapy
but don’t always
It’s more organic
to just vomit out words instead
and see where the path takes us

 

The note for Twitter has a lengthy title-
People in the U.S. who have died
due to lack of insulin access:

 

There are three names that we know of
And honor where we can
We hope that note stays stagnant
Never updated again

 

The To-Do list reminds you that
Life’s too short

 

The doctor’s electronic health record
reveals the same thing it always has
Diagnostic codes, plus an afterthought
She’s too smart for her own good and
has made this harder than it has to be

 

The grocery store menu doubles as
a Millennials’ dating app:
-Something healthy
-Something fun and easy

 

The footnote is the hat tip to
Someone likely smarter than you
Whose brain imprinted upon the earth first

 

The Notebook set the highest bar

 

The tattoo was supposed to be a Bible verse
about how nourishment is felt deeper
if you’ve known hunger beforehand

 

The birthday card note reads
Here’s a cute animal photo!
I hope this year is better
You deserve to be happy