a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
breasts, oil seeping into her
knives are safer, my mom always said.
I wonder what my new doc will say
asking over and over again
Her tool is blunter, but frightens
entry beats a dull thrust. My cheek
bite my lip to withhold gasps.
doc reassures. My lip cracks, I taste
recipe everywhere. It’s better
On the waiting room video,
I see her when I shut my eyes.
in this sterile room, barb twisting
my white knuckles, shaky enough to fear
the tool out of me and, as I’m aching,
someone explains my body to me.
is broken down there. There’s no reason
someone in St. Pete would help
she says. Not with that kind of pain,
likely plan for me