by Deborah Bayer | Mar 2, 2023 | Chapbook Poems, Poems, Poems (2021 to Present)
About This Poem: This poem first appeared in Juked in May 2021. The inspiration for this poem was two-fold. Part of it came from a freewrite about the white noise machines installed at my clinic. The other part came from a comment by the pediatrician in our...
by Deborah Bayer | Feb 23, 2023 | Chapbook Poems, Poems, Poems (2016-2020)
Death Rattle Back when five and dimes still made black and whites, I loved the cloudy bubbles made by pouring soda over brown-syruped vanilla ice cream. Today, the ShopRite-brand Dark Roast is bitter without complexity. I donate the open-but-full can to my...
by Deborah Bayer | Feb 16, 2023 | Chapbook Poems, Poems, Poems (2016-2020)
In Situ Even before I open my eyes, the light in them is orange, as red buds give way to masses of pollen and pale new leaves. The changing foliage makes a filter for sunlight through the glass: amber, pale green, then emerald. This tree and I have traveled a...
by Deborah Bayer | Feb 9, 2023 | Chapbook Poems, Poems, Poems (2021 to Present)
White Coat Lies Rain in November deepens depression, worsens all joint pain. On a scale of one to ten it’s an eight. The waiting room is full of dripping umbrellas. I walk to the front desk. The waiting woman sees me. Even my stethoscope disguise, my averted...
by Deborah Bayer | Feb 2, 2023 | Chapbook Poems, Poems, Poems (2016-2020)
The Heart Doctor A massive MI, myocardial infarction, happens on a plane from London to LA. The woman doesn’t know her distress is a symptom of her heart. The pastor says, lift up your hearts, and we say, lift them to God. Everyone else was amazed, but...
by Deborah Bayer | Jan 26, 2023 | Chapbook Poems, Poems, Poems (2004 - 2015)
Window to the Bay Sometimes I ask my patient, can you smell it? Of course, she can’t. Necrosis happens slowly, a little more each day. There’s time to adjust. My birthday was weeks ago. The flowers are dead. A clear square vase sits on the kitchen table, its...
