Tire Pressure

My head hurts

The ache has been there

for a long time now

My heart hurts

The ache has been there

even longer

 

When I tried to voice this

out loud, the words

hovered in-between

the air and my tonsils

like this:

 

“I don’t feel well.

I’ve felt this way for

awhile.”  (Forever).

 

“Let me check the

air pressure of

your car tires

before you drive

away,” he said.

“They’re fine.”

“I’ll check anyway.”

 

As if the quick fix

we’re all looking for

could be quantified by

pounds per square inch,

like a car tire or

the DNA of a human being.

 

Where is the Emotional Bacitracin?

To refill our souls the way

the air plumps up the tires,

so that they can traverse the

great expanse of life

leaving their mark in

the fullest possible way.

 

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The Cure

The Cure is the go-to daydream

What we tell ourselves while entwined

in the arms of a lover in a Queen size bed

to calm the “what ifs” circulating in the quiet

 

If we keep calling its name

The Cure The Cure

maybe one day it will hear us

 
If my future hypothetical grandchildren

were to roll their eyes at the thousandth telling

of The Cure story around the campfire

I’d die happy, for they’d only known a better world.

 

 

No Rules Poetry

Portrait of a Millennial Stuck in an Elevator

Doors open.

Push the buttons.

Doors close.

The levers shift with

the weight of it all.

Floor 5, please.

 

Today, it’s Floor Three-and-a-half

stuck somewhere in-between

the black and white, the grey.

 

“Millennials don’t dooo anything!

the Baby Boomer grad classmate

bemoans, while the Professor raises his

eyebrows at us. “Well?”

Outnumbered, we respond

internally.

 

I can only speak for myself

but I will go to bed hungry again tonight. 

Thirst for knowledge is louder than 

the grumbling.

 
A classmate: My family immigrated here. Our 

home is thousands of miles away. Our friends

will never see the inside of this classroom

this avenue they call Freedom. So I’m here. 

 
Portrait of a Millennial who forgot her

purse, who is now stuck in an elevator.

We won’t call it a broken elevator

because it may well rise again,

and we should give it that chance.

 

The purse not in the elevator

holds insulin syringes,

juice in case of

hypoglycemia,

water, notecards,

and responsibilities.

 

Being stuck in an elevator with

type 1 diabetes and no purse

is what anxiety spends your entire life

training you for:

finding a way out when all is lost

in a corn field maze of ridiculousness.

 

PUSH TO CALL

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY!

You push, it calls.

Ringing. No one is home

on the other side. Please

leave a message.

 

You drop to the floor and pray

You pound at the doors but they

are walled shut. Without insulin

life bleeds you dry within hours.

Open the doors! Dooo anything. 

 

This won’t be the first time,

nor the last, when your back is

against the wall.


We’re at Floor Three-and-a-half

There’s still time

We’re just getting started

We’re almost there

 

 

 

No Rules Poetry

Medusa

 

I don’t really like this picture

the Medusa hair

the empty, searching eyes

behind the mask of a smile.

 

“Emotional support” animals exist

because “emotional support” humans

sometimes falter

with their words.

That unspoken empathy

sometimes best fulfilled

by a creature

weighing less

than two pounds.

 
“Can you bring me my baby?”

I’d asked my mother

“Birthday cake

wasn’t sugar free

after all”

I’d sighed.

 

Unfairly pushing the blame

of an insidious condition

onto another

in the exact ignorant manner

I have grown to detest

in the abundantly phony

“Tame Your Diabetes!” articles.

 
My vision blurry

I already knew the number

was 400+ and climbing

without having to look

at the faded screen

of an overused machine

supposedly meant to sustain life

while the cure lingers

just out of reach.

 
“Can you bring me my baby?”

 

 

No Rules Poetry

Rx straddles the ledge

Rx straddles the ledge

of the countertop

His hand shakes as he reaches

Rx drops

He screams

as the glass splinters

all over the floor

and into his foot

the droplets of life

now mingled in with the dirt

from inside and out

holes punched in the wall

of the kitchen

where he can no longer feed

without those tiny droplets.

What good is the dirt?

 

 
For a life that is so fragile

soft and precarious

so dependent on these molecules

and conversations

and circumstances,

it sure as heck

feels weathered

and hard.

 

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No Rules Poetry

What would have been?

Wonder

What would have been?

if the right provider

had asked the right questions

and I’d replied honestly

all those years ago.

 
“Why is your blood sugar chaotic?”

“Because life is chaotic…”

Firm, and to the point

the question and the answer.

And the response?

 
Or if the nurse /

who connected me to the doctor /

who helps me to stay afloat now /

had been my nurse then /

and she’d been my doctor.

 

What would have been

What is

What will be

Still swimming

 

 

No Rules Poetry