by Katie Johntz
Adrift in that airy
lobby, rubber plants arching
overhead, I remember the sound
of the news of the first illness, the first
corrupted cells breaking
off on their own to take hold in the lungs. Something plaintive
about it. Something peaceful. Cells flowing
singly, down through the bloodstream, dipping like leaves
on a river—like a couple
of canoes skimming by, snagging
on a root and settling there. I remember
the surgeon’s first words
settling like snowflakes
around us. Almost
ethereal. Ether. My mother on the table—her eyelids’ thin skin
rippling quietly. My mother is indelible. My mother sings
out of key. My mother is only
crescendo. No descrescendo, no obligato. When I
was a child, she—leaning back
in the tub—would let me drip water
from a washcloth
in the hollows around her collar bone, her hands vague
as moths. Here she has only
this room with its bed
and its railing: No band
plays outside her window. No kisses
flicker down her throat.
::
Katie Johntz is a native of California, now living in Brooklyn, NY, strongly affected by landscape. Her writing reflects a variety of influences including her work as a therapist with children and adults. This shapes and reshapes her impressions daily. Her experience as a musician has forced her to listen. Her work has appeared in such publications as Berkeley Poetry Review, First of the Month, Mudfish, Occident, and Sow’s Ear.
Image: “Phalaenoides glycinae.” Arthur Bartholomew Source: Museums Victoria (Public Domain)
ID: Three illustrated moths.
Psaltery & Lyre 