Former Ninja

When I was little I scared
my parents, walking so quietly
once I spoke or touched them
they startled. Jumping slightly, saying
I’m a ninja, never making
noise, or telling me they needed
to put a bell around my neck,
like a cow, which made me giggle.

Now I can’t walk anywhere
without sound. The scratch
of my walker dragging
across the concrete, announcing me
wherever I go. I listen
to music so loud to make sure
I can’t hear myself move.

*

Ivy

My favorite nurse
leaves the room to grab
duct tape for Dad’s shoe.

We noticed the sole flopping
around walking to the hospital
that morning.

She brings back two rolls:
neon pink and cheetah print.
9-year-old me lights up

and Dad regrets his decision
while me and Ivy work:
overlapping the neon

and cheetah print to
make a beautiful overlapping,
striped pattern–

continuing our comedy when
we decide the other shoe
needs to match.

*

Thirteen Years Old

They introduce themselves
by last name:
“Dr. Kim, I’m responsible
for your bones.”
“Dr. Verkler, I’m doing
the plastics part, your skin.”
“Dr. Kiers, or Alex, your
anesthesiologist, I’ll make
sure you’re comfortable.”
Plus two more per doctor, who introduce
themselves while I think this gown
is too big. They’re here because
I’m rare and this
is a teaching hospital.

I want to teach them
how to close a door
the next morning when
a school of them—
plastics first, then ortho—
come for rounds.
Even more than I saw
yesterday in the O.R.
They crowd around the foot
of my bed, like fish
when you throw bait
off the dock. I want to
teach them to be kinder
waking me up since
I can barely manage
the pain that they
have caused. But they
don’t care, because I’m rare
and this is a teaching hospital.

*

Trading Secrets

I haven’t always used a walker.

I used to be a dancer, from first grade
to freshman year of high school.

I loved hiking and nature.
The faint rush of the water,

the subtle yet defining cracks in rocks,
or even the faint changes in the tree leaves.

I’d run ahead, so excited.
Sometimes, when I daydream, I wonder

if my veins are filled with longing
and my heart an abyss of remembered joy—

the fleeting moment of playing kickball,
choreographing dance routines in my
unfinished basement—

yet these feelings are so heavy that I hold them
inside. I want someone to come around,
know the right questions to ask and help me.

I want to go back to being a little kid,
when we could exchange lighthearted sentiments
because someone asked, quietly,
Should we trade secrets?

*

Crying at 9:17 PM

You press your spine into the cold
tile wall in the bathroom you don’t share
because you have no roommates.

You’re 21 now, why do you care
that your so-called friends aren’t wishing you
“Happy Birthday!”

You don’t know. No, yes you do.
You didn’t think you’d see today.
You’ll finish what you started,
but you’re over giving so much
to people that couldn’t care less

that you turned 21 today. Your gift
to yourself is learning
not everyone deserves all of you
and that you can get up
from the cold wall and
wipe your own tears away.
You are worth more.

*

Lindsay Ratcliffe is a poet from Flat Rock, MI. Her work has focused on her experiences with Hutchinson-Gilford Progeria Syndrome. She is graduating from Albion College with a Bachelor’s Degree in Political Science and English. Her English degree has an emphasis on Creative Writing. This is her first publication.