These poems are published as part of the Amplifying Disabled Voices special section, selected by editors Christopher Heuer, Marlena Chertock, and Gregory Luce.

pain

each a strife or shoulder
             a hurt somewhere
will it break us from
             our flicker of sorrow

maybe your hurt is
            your own, is winter
its splintering hungers
            summer’s flat pall
scent of boxwood
            in the beating heat

sometimes it’s all
             we’ve got
song and sweetly
             sickly hum hurt

we’ve all got what
             we think we own
until ache harangues
             us into absence
body gone out on
             the lonesome road
begging for mercy
            a polished stone

pain (2)

pot of nothing soil
            barren broke back

where even lizards
             hide their slither & chance

solitary seeker
             no sweet spring
             no oasis of possible

not even burble & reedy muck

terrible horizon
             I wander you in sun stasis
 

Sarah Browning is the author of Call Me Yes (FlowerSong Press, forthcoming), Killing Summer (Sibling Rivalry) and Whiskey in the Garden of Eden (The Word Works). Co-curator and co-host of Wild Indigo Poetry, she also teaches with Writers in Progress and coaches writers one-on-one. Co-founding director of Split This Rock, Browning received the Lillian E. Smith Award and fellowships from the DC Commission on the Arts & Humanities, VCCA, Yaddo, Porches, and Mesa Refuge. She lives in Philadelphia. More: www.sarahbrowning.net

Featured image in this post is, “Lizard on stone” By Andergr – licensed creative commons via Wikimedia Commons.

This poem is published as part of the Amplifying Disabled Voices special section, selected by editors Christopher Heuer, Marlena Chertock, and Gregory Luce.
 

counting

wake up check chart, one two three days before surgery, one two three pills plus one (and a gabapentin i found in the bottom of the drawer), one two three, up out of bed, shamble to the shower, scrub the site with antibiotics, back to bed again. deep breath in hurts too bad so i take little ones and count pills of oxycodone left. one two three four five six seven eight nine ten. two tramodol.

wake up check chart, one two days before surgery, one two pills, plus one, plus another, plus the hours between motrins, plus mom opens the shades for the sunlight hours. tried to call a friend today, couldn’t hack it. moaning and bitching from pain to a quiet receiver. is it too much? one two three up out of bed just barely crawling, and shower. wash the site. cant get MRSA again.

wake up check chart, one two three four days, one two three four five, one two three four five six seven days before surgery, or one, or two, or it’s the worst pain i’ve ever felt, and i tried to call a friend today but they were busy, or the sun is too bright and i’ve only got the tramadol, or i’ve got nothing in my stomach, can’t keep it down days left. drip dry instead of towels cos i can’t stand it anymore days left. lie on the floor on a blanket and cry many days left. miss laying on my stomach many days left. miss fresh air many days, miss sitting up many days. try to call a friend and it goes to voicemail days left. try to call a friend and they’ve got nothing to say days left. keep the door open just to hear voices days left. one two three tylenol, one two three four motrin, one oxycodone and a gabapentin for good measure.

wake up check chart, one day before surgery. one two hours until i have to stop eating. ask me what i want for dinner and i cry like a death row inmate at their final meal (oxy makes me weepy). try to call a friend today and they say, thank god it’s almost over, thank god, i agree, and wonder what they have to be thankful for.
 

yetzer hara

I found the face of God
at the bottom of a bottle of oxycodone.
It was an ugly sneering punim,
perfectly symmetrical,
hauntingly sleek.

He, Himself, and not an angel,
He, Himself, and not a seraph,
He, Himself, and not a messenger.

He asked if I had gotten His voicemail,
and I told Him I had,
and that I would call Him back
in the morning
if I felt a little bit better.

SB Young is a multiply disabled poet from the New York metro. He will be graduating from SUNY Stony Brook’s undergrad Creative Writing BFA, and helps run their undergrad magazine, Sandpiper Review. Other than that, you may have seen his work in various places across the internet, including ScribesMICRO or new words press. He likes enjambment, table-sized maps with knives in them, and videos of cats playing the piano.

Featured image in this post is, “Pills in blister pack” by Unknown, licensed creative commons via Wikimedia Commons.

These poems are published as part of the Amplifying Disabled Voices special section, selected by editors Christopher Heuer, Marlena Chertock, and Gregory Luce.
 

& Before I Arrived At After

I didn’t know,
you were their safety net;

I was
a non-entity,

Your something to be crafted
into a what

They could
handle;

And when you left
your body,

Mine loomed large
required duty;

Denial whispered in darkness
assumed I couldn’t hear

Don’t invite
her,

Shine in their
eyes;

Supposed I couldn’t
see

Who’s she gonna
ask,

In the thin-lipped
silence;

Of my
questions,

Left
hanging;

Now,
I know,

You protected
me.
_{-For my Daddy, John, father of a daughter living with quadriplegia and cerebral palsy}

Until Now, I’ve Never Written A Poem That Had To Be Redacted

What happened?

I ordered shower chair wheels
from a service rep named Marta,

On backorder,
my wheels were canceled,
called back and reordered;

Front to left,
right to back,

That’s what the invoice
should have said;

Instead, my inbox opened to a (redacted here)
county Summons, in a West Coast (redacted here)
state court by (redacted here) officials for (redacted here) offences;

Failure to appear
would result in an arrest;

To take place at a
(redacted here) location…

When I rang the only number in sight,
Marta answered and my recorded findings
unwittingly caused Marta to audibly redact her own chewing gum;

Only then did recognition
pierce my unheard thoughts;

Marta’s unauthorized at-work interweb interests
attached themselves to my in-route wheels;

And her job spun on the line
between hushed recoil and what could not be rescinded.

Kristie L. Williams is a quadriplegic living with cerebral palsy. Her debut chapbook, Finding Her, was published in 2022 by Finishing Line Press. Her poetry is also published in Cairn, Main Street Rag, Dan River Review, Hermit Feathers Review, Heron Clan, Madness Muse Press, Snapdragon, Big City Lit, Nostos, Does It Have Pockets, Maximum Tilt Solstice Anthology, Fixed and Free Quarterly, Artemis, Chiron Review and The Poetry Society of Virginia Centennial Anniversary Anthology of Poems. She is a 2022 Pushcart nominee and a 2022 and 2025 Best of the Net nominee. Williams received an MA Ed. in Adult Education and taught for 12 years in the North Carolina Community College System. She uses her own story of quadriplegia and cerebral palsy to advocate for herself and others with disabilities. Williams considers her work as ‘disability adjacent’, because although it shapes the context of her work cerebral palsy does not overshadow the arc of her story. When she’s not playing with words, Williams is participating in adaptive recreation, creating mixed media art, reading great books, and going to rock concerts. Her website is: kristielwilliams.com

Featured image in this post is, “Redacted page 53 of Mueller report”, public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

This poem is published as part of the Amplifying Disabled Voices special section, selected by editors Christopher Heuer, Marlena Chertock, and Gregory Luce.
 

Pain Clinic

The patient, recidivist to treatment,
stoic but not quite spartan,
prepped and stretched
on the therapeutic torture table
to gladly accept the pain that,
it is said by the adepts,
can cancel out his pain,

emits
despite gulped breath
and gritted teeth
grunts against initial probing,
and then, third injection piercing bull’s-eye,
lets go a loud groan
not expressed: pressed out.

Theirs the experiment,
his the experience:
To whom, at any rate,
would I call out, here amongst
the touters of cure,
pals of the palliative,
legatees of the leech?

He apologizes, not that he could
disappoint those attending,
who hold no expectation of him,
but by his terse sorry
to own to the shame
that shows
he expected more of himself,

and is caught offguard
when the doctor accepts:
Next door there’s a new patient
he hopes has not heard.
The poor guy, it is implied,
might be warned off.
All must keep quiet to keep hope.
 

Severities

1

I am what you are riddled with,
when you are riddled,
the flowering of your greatest depth.

I make you turn toward me,
make you close your eyes, the better to see me,
so you see only me, who cannot be seen.

Though I make you think
you have abided too long in the light,
still I prove you to yourself:

You know no one else can place me,
until you let them know.
And yet I care no more for you

than the moss for the wall. I want
to be myself, now and now and now
endlessly, and yet seem to be you.

If I can be deadened, do not be fooled.
Who, after all, am I?
Only to heal is to solve me.

2

What clues them in,
I’m never aware of.
I can be walking along,
someone who knows me will say,
I can tell: it’s bad today.

Hitch in the step,
lean, lurch, or limp,
It’s subtle. I hadn’t known myself,
but when I’m made to mind it,
there it is: they’re right.

I know it real
outside in.

James Toupin, retired general counsel of the US Patent and Trademark Office, has published poems widely in journals and anthologies, including in Pleiades, Nimrod and Beloit Poetry Journal. His first book of poems, Upon the Century Called American, appeared in 2024 from Main Street Rag Press. He is also a published translator, of Selected Letters of Alexis de Tocqueville on Politics and Society, and writer on legal topics.

Featured image in this post is, “Diseases of the hip, knee, and ankle joints and their treatment by a new and efficient method”, 1875, by Hugh Owen Thomas, licensed public domain via Open Knowledge Commons and Harvard Medical School via wikimedia commons.

These poems are published as part of the Amplifying Disabled Voices special section, selected by editors Christopher Heuer, Marlena Chertock, and Gregory Luce.
 

When I Was 69

At age 69, I wondered how I should feel
when 69 was the position I could never manage
while making love or the number of poems
whose words were lost before they touched
the page. Sixty-nine thousand is probably
the number of times I wished my disability
would disappear –

Sixty-nine hundred must be the number of walks
I have taken when I put aside my worries
to enjoy the world around me.
When my husband told me, sixty-nine million times
that he loved me.
Must I always be in doubt because I am not like everyone else?

My body has its challenges.
Spastic muscles
ease with exercise;
long walks with a rollator
do not define who I am.

I will take my body
wherever it wants to go.
Pain or no pain; slow movements
Shaky hands, numb thumbs.

Off we go in cars, trains, and planes.
toward the mystery of unknown places
I will not pander to stranger’s looks.
My body is fine; I will keep it with me.
 

Just Another Day

I awake to greet a day
when my body does not yell at me.
Muscles settle peacefully in
legs, arms, back
my face does not show the worry
that often keeps me awake
In the late hours of the night.

Today I dress in pretty clothes
Earrings dangle from my ears
Does anyone really believe
an aging, disabled woman cannot
be beautiful?

I go into the city
My 4-wheel rollator will take me everywhere.
A textile show
A Van Gogh exhibition
New fiction in my favorite bookstore

A friend meets me for lunch
Pasta with truffles
Chocolate bonbons with vanilla cream
She cuts my food
I ignore the condescending looks

‘I have to go’ she says
Just as we begin a real conversation

I get lost on my way home
stopping strangers for directions
They don’t wait for me to finish speaking
thinking I am homeless
or want their money.

I find my way as sun begins to set
delighting in sounds of evening
Shadow’s reflection on my hand

As a 77 year-old woman with Cerebral Palsy, since birth, I have been writing poetry since my college days. My poems attempt to portray my various life experiences with hints of humor and a love of nature. I try to express both my resilience and wonder at the various reactions to my body from others as well as myself. Still working, I am the Project Director of the Entry Point! program, sponsored by the American Association for the Advancement of Science, which connects undergraduate and graduate students with disabilities to industry, government and industry partners for consideration of placement in summer internships. Over 500 interns have secured graduate degrees in their fields and/or are working scientists. Married for 48 years, I have a marvelous daughter, son-in-law, and two amazing grandchildren, 11 and 14. My first chapbook, “Contender of Chaos” was published in 2020. “The Tree and Me” was published in last year’s Mid-Atlantic Review, and three poems were recently published in the online journal, Wordsgathering.

Featured image in this post is, “Farmhouse in Provence” by Vincent Van Gogh, public domain, image via National Gallery of Art via Wikimedia Commons.