Poem by Sandra Sortwell Makau
Near Miss
I swerve when I hear the doctor’s words,
the news of her 26 cancerous lymph nodes
crosses the line and veers into my lane
the impact like an oncoming car
fast and out of control.
I reach to protect her from the fatal sound
of impending diagnosis;
the doctor’s face softens,
options replace shock,
a plan formulates.
Her brush with death is rerouted,
we take the detour of
hope
fear
love.
About the Author – Sandra Sortwell Makau
Sandy Sortwell Makau lives in Chico, California. Her articles and essays have been published by The New York Times Syndicate, and Frommer’s Budget Travel, to name a few. Her poetry has appeared in Multicultural Echoes, New Verse New and read, on air, for NPR during National Poetry Month.
Keep Reading…
- At the Airport Bubble
The bathroom medicine cabinet—It has been three weeks. This will be the easiest I think. It isn’t. I can’t stop the mist in my eyes as I toss everyday medicines left over from normal ailments, the healthy days, the pre-cancer days. - the promise, malice, lazarus returns
the last surviving member of Heaven’s Gate reflects on failure I thought you were coming back had wrapped up everything was ready to be taken away - pre/mo/cognition, optimism is a mutated mule
there’s something happening that I can’t quite catch. something hiding, birthing, like the egg of a maggot, itching to hatch, quite slight— barely there—
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