Two Poems by Betsy Mars

Gone to the Dogs

My body riddled with dot-to-dot
blood bursting through the thinning skin,
already a map of bruises on my shins
from who knows where. My scalp now visible
with all its lumps and bumps
formerly hidden beneath the glory of my hair—
the hair I once saw as a misbehaving dog
scampering here and there. My fingers locked,
unable to grip—who will open my jars,
write my words when my hands begin to slip?
Feet flattened by too much weight,
bones bulging where they don’t belong,
metatarsals over-marched. Who will piggyback
me when I can no longer walk and I slump
benignly in my bed? When my wants
are few and my needs are many, who
will diaper me, spoon me soft food
between my toothless gums, read me a story,
carry me through my second infancy?

* 

Density

My feet, strapped at an awkward slant,
make a triangle with the base of the exam table,
childbearing hips flat, scanned
as the machine shoots its x beams at my bones.
I imagine my brain in full swing: osteoporosis
of the mind, gray matter crumbling, the spine
of my brain leaking essentials: fluids, sanity.
The cheap construction I built swept away
on a tide of shame, desiccated hope,
structural failure, vanity.

*

Betsy Mars is a prize-winning poet, photographer, and assistant editor at Gyroscope Review. Her poetry has been published in numerous journals and anthologies. Recent poems can be found in Minyan, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Autumn Sky Poetry Daily. Her photos have appeared online and in print, including one which served as the Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge prompt in 2019. She has two books, Alinea, and her most recent, co-written with Alan Walowitz, In the Muddle of the Night. In addition, she also frequently collaborates with San Diego artist Judith Christensen, most recently on an installation entitled “Mapping Our Future Selves.”