The Human Touch 2013 - University of Colorado Denver

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The In-between Charlotte Vandervoort He lives in the in-between. That grey area straddling a vast ocean where smog meets snow, right converges with wrong, and love turns to hate. He answers yes and no questions with a “maybe.” Kill or be killed? He asks “why kill at all?” And the age old question “chocolate or vanilla?” He. Mixes. Them. Up. His neutral existence is taking a stance by not taking one. On the rim of a coin, rather than heads or tails. Infuriating… • Untitled 1 [Adam Borgia] PG 14 PG 15
Es la Medicina Amy Howard My roommate glances at my TV, esta molesta, I think to myself. She is always complaining to the nurse about my soaps, as if I can’t understand her, as if I’m not lying 5 feet away. I can hear you! Puedo entenderse. I’ve lived here for 26 years I want to shout. But that requires too much energía. Everything requires too much energy these days. I look over at my roommate. White, pasty skin, watery eyes with a persistent red tint, her nurse, her family, my nurse… they all fuss over her. Maybe it is my skin? Maybe it’s too dark to be pasty, so they don’t know how sick I am? “Nurse?” I call. No response. Can’t you hear it? My voice? It’s gone; it’s so weak, like my body. Can’t you tell? I get mad then, which surprises me. I didn’t know I still had enough strength to get mad. “Enfermera!” I yell, although it comes out more as a strangled cry, which makes me angrier. My voice, like my body before it, is failing me. She walks over. “What do you need?” “Quiero hablar con mi doctora” I say. She shakes her head and addresses the CNA “She does that sometimes. I know that she speaks English”. Sí, I think irritably to myself, and I know that you have Spanish speaking nurses, doctors, and translators, but my translator requests have gone unanswered. I don’t know all the words, you talk too fast, but mostly, I just don’t trust you. The nurse talks to my scabs, she rarely meet my eyes, “I don’t know what you want.” She turns and leaves the room. I turn back to my soaps, but the scenes swim before my eyes. I’m crying, I realize. Why? I never used to cry. My cheeks are frequently wet now though. La medicina. I blame the drugs they pump into me every hour and satisfy myself with that. I blame the meds for a lot of things these days. Sometimes I sleep through breakfast and lunch, waking to see long shadows stretch across my room as the sun sets. La medicina, I grumble as I quickly check the phone to see if the message-light is blinking. It usually isn’t. I’ve been sick longer than is polite. No one calls me anymore. A familiar pain begins to creep up my legs. I strain to move them, but, as usual, it’s futile. Even my own limbs ignore my commands now, in English or Spanish. A knock on the door, I know who it is. I don’t answer. She comes in anyway. She dropped the always-cheerful act a few days back. She wants me gone. It’s the dinero. The money’s gone and I don’t have any more to offer. I remain silent until she leaves, frustrated. I’m not getting better, in fact I’m getting worse, but they don’t know why. No one seems to know anything anymore, not even myself. When did I get here? How did I get here? I think back, fi ghting the haze of my thoughts. I remember the empty prescription bottle. I don’t know how long it was empty, a week, a month? There it sat, on the bathroom counter, taunting me each morning and evening. “You can’t afford to fi ll me. You know it’s only a matter of time. Do you remember the last time…” The psychosis had already begun to sink in, I could feel it at tugging me, pulling me away from reality, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t pay for a refi ll; all I could do was wait. They told me I hit someone, a stranger I guess or maybe a neighbor. I don’t know. I remember the jail cell though. It was green, an ugly slimy green that fi lled my nightmares until the medicines calmed me. One day, they tell me, I collapsed in that cell, on that green fl oor. I’d like to print out my memory. Maybe imprint it on some fi lm. That way I’d be able to see where the gaps are and eke out meaning from the misty, convoluted segments. I’m tried of someone else telling me my own past. I play my diagnosis back and forth in my mind, neuropatía, neuropathy. It’s a senseless word in both languages. It’s a fancy placeholder, like so many things it’s translation is “we don’t know”. I try to move my toes again. The fi sioterapeuta says that I need to practice this every couple hours. She says it will help me. That it will help me walk sooner. Is she trying to mock me? Walk? When I can’t even move my ankles? Walk? When I can’t even blow my own nose? I’d laugh, except I know that instead I would just cry. I’d laugh, but it’s my only hope left. I either walk or I die. So I try, once again, to move my toes. • PG 16 PG 17
Page 1 and 2: vol 6 / 2013 JOURNAL OF POETRY PROS
Page 3 and 4: Layout & Printing Volume 6 • 2013
Page 5 and 6: Contents Volume 6 • 2013 Preface
Page 7: Wondering Allison Kimball I: I’ve
Page 11 and 12: The Waiting Room Henry Claman, MD A
Page 13 and 14: Does he now sail to Catalina with h
Page 15 and 16: This series titled, Waiting, explor
Page 17 and 18: Untitled Jacob Pellinen When traged
Page 19 and 20: Nobody’s Pregnant, Nobody’s Dyi
Page 21 and 22: December 12, 2005 [Continued] my pa
Page 23 and 24: I Never Met Carlos Vega Lauren Role
Page 25 and 26: I Tano’ hu (my island) Leslie Pal
Page 27 and 28: Melanocyte Steven Robinson Metamorp
Page 29 and 30: Santa took off his oxygen [Continue
Page 31 and 32: The School Nurse Robin McKee Hello,
Page 33 and 34: Losing a Stranger Rachel Skalina Wh
Page 35 and 36: Seafood Salad Call Back Denise E. C
Page 37 and 38: Dissecting Insomnia Zia Choudhury P
Page 39 and 40: When You Are Gone Hywel Davies, MD
Page 41 and 42: An Ode to Indentured Servants Steve
Page 43 and 44: Battle’s sign Jessica Campbell, M
Page 45 and 46: A Meditation on Muses Kevin P. Bunn
Page 47 and 48: I Don’t Remember ... Nicole Areva
Page 49 and 50: She Lost Me First Stephanie Sandhu
Page 51 and 52: Labor and Delivery: The Other Side
Page 53 and 54: Snow Day [Shawn Miller] Siem Reap,
Page 55 and 56: Not so normal teenage life: An illn
Page 57 and 58: Reflections on Motherhood Sharisse
Page 59 and 60:
My dysfunctional family [Continued]
Page 61 and 62:
The Saga of Ms. White: From Porcupi
Page 63 and 64:
My Practice Laura Katers That morni
Page 65 and 66:
Trust [Thomas Haygood, MD] Brion Fa
Page 67 and 68:
Left Overs [Continued] I still have
Page 69 and 70:
TBI Memoir [Continued] Gone. My car
Page 71 and 72:
TBI Memoir [Continued] We walking w
Page 73 and 74:
Biographies For Writers & Artists N
Page 75 and 76:
Biographies Continued Steve Nordeen
Page 77:
Submissions for 2014 Edition For Th
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