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…
- Propagation
I wake to her fingers on my cheek, heavy and sweet-smelling. My body protests with a sharp yawn as I take her in through the sleep haze. Leg cramp? Nightmare? Do I need to change the sheets? - Prologue: Milagros’ Story
Milagros had never climbed a tree in her life, her father wouldn’t allow it. Just as he had forbidden her from going with her cousin to the concert tonight. She swallowed the lump in her throat and kicked off her sandals to make the climb easier. - Cold Comfort
Mom died on Tuesday. On Friday she returned. I slept until eleven that day (it had been increasingly hard to get out of bed). When I finally shuffled into the kitchen, I saw her.
Meanwhile, at Dreamers…
Last chance! Stories of Place, Home, and the Meaning of Dreaming
The deadline for the Dreamers Writing Contest on place and home is January 31. Submit a heartfelt story, poem, or essay reflecting on belonging, memory, displacement, or the meaning of home. Open internationally. $250 CAD prize and publication.
Editor’s Note: Issues 21 and 22
We’re pleased to announce the simultaneous release of Dreamers Magazine Issues 21 and 22.These two issues were shaped during very different moments…