Tag: health

Three Poems by Louisa Muniz

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About-Face on Smith Street

In the window at Hamilton’s Shop,
the mannequin wore

bell bottoms,
a suede fringe belt,
a multicolored vest.

Her body posed,
mine falling as I ran
to catch up to him.

It had been months.

I tripped on the uneven sidewalk.

I feigned calm
as the woman hurrying past
asked if I was hurt.

Hurt? Let me stitch the frayed hem
of a daughter’s heart.

The only time I remember
my father laughing

was watching The Honeymooners…
to the moon, Alice, to the moon.

Laughter ashed in his throat,
moved jagged through me.

I picked myself up before he turned.
His shadow oblivious to mine.

Unscathed, the mannequin stared
straight ahead.

I turned and walked the opposite way.

*

I Ask God to Lend a Hand

The morning stirs its cup
into the bowl of day.
I wake to hay in my head.

In the kitchen I gently rub
the money tree’s leaves
between my palms.

Through the window,
the rabbit’s stillness
mesmerizes.

Outside, I draw the dogwood’s
white blossoms to my face.

Its branches bob back & forth.
I give her the attention I need.

There were times I gave away everything:
my secrets, my clothes, even my time.

Now I give in to silence.
Listen for God’s guidance.

God trills like a blackbird,
chirps like a sparrow.

During the hour of tenderness
the sun gathers on my shoulders.

Purple self-seeding flowers
sprout between stones.

I open my hands.
Put down the sword.

Let what’s good in.

*

Keeping the Faith

My husband’s car sits unused for weeks.
He asks me to start it.

To his surprise, it starts immediately.

See… you have to have faith, I say.
Faith is a key and a good battery, he replies.

I smile & wonder after all this time
how we see things so differently.

It’s June. Jasmine pinwheels perfume the air.

The dogwood tree outside our window
strews blossoms across the pavement.

I point out how beautiful the tree looks.
He glances, grunts. Uh-huh.

At the supermarket I meet an old colleague.
She tells me her husband died four years ago.
Being alone is really, really terrible.

After weeks of caring for an ill husband,
I’m filled with gratitude.

At home, I lean into his moss-sweet heart.

Come sit with me, tough guy.
I’ll keep the faith.
You keep it running.

The wild horse in him breaks through.

*

Louisa Muniz lives in Sayreville, N.J. She holds a Master’s in Curriculum and Instruction from Kean University. Her work has appeared in ONE ART, Tinderbox Journal, Palette Poetry, SWWIM, Jelly Bucket, PANK Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize. Her debut chapbook, After Heavy Rains was released in December, 2020. Her chapbook, The Body is More Than a Greening Thing was published in June of 2025 by Finishing Line Press.

My Daughter with MS Has Another MRI by Terri Kirby Erickson

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My Daughter with MS Has Another MRI

For Gia

Soon my daughter will slip into those loose
pajamas sans her silver earrings, necklaces,
and bracelets, as well as the funky shoes she
often finds in thrift stores. She will lie down
on a narrow table which slides into an MRI
with an IV filled with contrast dripping into
her vein. And surrounding her beloved body
that was once part of my body and still feels
that way, is a giant magnet making intermit-
tant loud noises that sound just like a herd
of stampeding horses. So my daughter will
close her eyes and pretend she’s someplace
else—perhaps a beach in Corolla where wild
mustangs roam, as images of her brain and
spinal cord are magically recorded. For me,
this is a time for prayer, for wanting to trade
places with her, for asking that she be healed.
I will approach the throne of my God on my
knees, every part of me a supplicant, a beggar
for mercy. New lesions, if there are any, may
mean more disability, pain, and suffering for
my throwback sixties yet born in the eighties,
bread-baking, bead-wearing flowerchild with
her dreamcatcher collection, piercings, and
colorful tattoos—and the kind of inner light
that no amount of contrast could ever capture.

*

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of eight collections of poetry, including The Light That Follows Us Home (Fall, 2026, Press 53). Her work has received multiple honors, including the International Book Award for Poetry, Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, Nautilus Silver Book Award, Atlanta Review International Book Award, Gold Medal in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards, Nazim Hikmet Poetry Award, Board of Regents Annals of Internal Medicine Poetry Prize, Tennessee Williams Poetry Prize, and many more. Her poems have appeared in numerous literary journals, anthologies, magazines, and newspapers, including Aethlon, “American Life in Poetry,” Asheville Poetry Review, JAMA, ONE ART, Poetry Foundation, Poet’s Market, Rattle, Sport Literate, The Christian Century, The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and Verse Daily among many others. She lives with her husband in North Carolina.

Ode to My Spine by Valerie Bacharach

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Ode to My Spine

Vertebrae, pale as winter sun, fixed in place
by screws tiny as a newborn’s fingernail.
Trace its path on the x-ray—
a trail alive with reconnecting protons and electrons.
When I sit in silence, I can hear
the swift flow of blood,
ligaments with their quiet song.
Nerves freed from compression flare
down my leg like last night’s lightning.
Muscles speak again in the body’s code—
contract and release, release and contract.
My spine’s aging column holds me
erect as one foot steps forward,
hovers in space above sidewalk,
breath held tight in lungs, my future a tenuous thing.

*

Valerie Bacharach is a proud member of Carlow University’s Madwomen in the Attic writing workshops. Her book, Last Glimpse, will be published by Broadstone Books. Her chapbook After/Life will be published by Finishing Line Press. Her poem Birthday Portrait, Son, published by the Ilanot Review, was selected for inclusion in 2023 Best Small Fictions. She has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes and one Best of the Net.