Stafford Challenge. 09/14/2026

 1978. Ignoring strep throat for nearly a year

I was diagnosed with gangrene in my tonsils.

Admitted to Saint Cabrini Hospital,

I gave myself over to the surgical care of a doctor

who wore an imperial mustache

and a ducktail beard,

who had hooked me up to a therapeutic inhaler

every office visit for no reason I can think of

and so far, had touched me inappropriately twice.

I submitted to the designs of caring nurses

and prayer from the Missionary Sisters

of the Sacred Heart of Jesus,

I’d gone under anesthesia as a high soprano

and rose as a tenor. My voice

unrecognizable to the few friends I telephoned.

My friend, Colin visited, and I think he glimpsed my butt

peeping out the back of my gown, blankets

kicked off. I was in too much pain to care.

For a solid month I let ice shards melt

down my throat

until I could handle the jars of baby food.

I swore I’d henceforth pay more attention to my health,

but I didn’t. Not finding out I was pregnant

until the fifth month. Stubbed toes infected.

Depression. Fatigue. Something other than myself

holding my attention.

 

 

 

Stafford Challenge. 09/13/2026

In hindsight, what did we have in common?

The early eighties, I was in my Evangelical phase,  

praising or condoning in every sentence,

throwing—not the first, but certainly the second stone.

 

At the jewelry counter Lonnie asked me

to demonstrate how I put on my eye liner.

Was his line thin enough? He wanted

enhancement, not ridicule.

I complimented his technique

though I asked

why a perfectly beautiful male

would wear makeup.

 

Lonnie and I gossiped in Accessories,

visited in Men’s where we discussed

the lack of quality in the raw linen,

sat together for lunch in the breakroom

where I’d lament my conflictions

working retail.

 

A fledgling model, he gave me a photo

from his latest portfolio. Stunning,

and an overt line under his eyes.

 

After work he walked me

to Seafirst Tower where my fiancé worked,

until my fiancé’s rudeness drove Lonnie away.

 

So many overlooked details.

 

Stafford Challenge. 09/12/2026

Morning walk.

Wet boots left near the door,

my coat slung across the shower bar.

I run a towel through my hair.

I no longer miss having to towel off

all 120 pounds of Lab Zeus.

It has been 20 years

since he muzzled-jabbed me awake.

 

The tea kettle isn’t going to whistle.

Instead, there will be a quiet pop.

If anyone else lived here, they would appreciate that

 

almost as much as I do. The quiet.

The lap blanket. The chenille robe. Slippers.

Coffee and another good book,

the news in the background

like an underscore in a parody,

ads for an updated iPhone, smart watches,

and bundled insurance.

Stafford Challenge. 9/11/2026

Brash. Unwanted. Like timpani

next to one’s head during sleep.

I mute the television volume, avert my eyes

until I’m certain the news has moved on.

Today, another day I won’t talk with family or friends.

I have never looked closely enough

at their ranklement, brewing like daily coffee.

Stafford Challenge. 9/10/2026

 4 a.m. again

and I don’t even lift the curtains.

No visible stars, just streetlamps—

one street framed as the world

lined with cars, shadows

in harsh angles,

last night’s leaves on the ground

and sometimes a person

who should be home in bed—

the tension of their presence.

Impossible to Fold

6/14/2026 (c) 

 I once tried to recycle newspaper

adding dried flowers

and pink cardstock.

Hours.

It took hours to soak, to beat

with a hand mixer.

Then  pouring and shaking the mush

over a framed screen

like panning for gold.

Days to dry.

I tried heating the mash with a blow-dryer

and then in the oven—

tinged the petals

and at last,

a heavy texture

that refused the ink,

impossible to fold,

tampered paper that lost all

it’s paper essence.

 

Less Than

 5/11/26 (c)

Measuring my worth in cups

is not as tangible as it first seemed.

I use a dry cup for the bones,

a liquid cup for the blood,

measuring spoons for eyes and teeth.

I think I am accurate.

Discrepancies pile up.

The sum of my parts

is less than the whole

 

All my better parts are weightless

and lack the volume to measure.

I need to find a scale I cannot tip.