Walking After Supper
Western sun casts its solstice brightness
on my straw hat and sunglasses.
I start my power walk,
my race against type I diabetes,
against the tortillas and Spanish rice I just ate,
my race to eat all I want
without getting a high blood sugar.
I walk past gardens of lawns still lush,
patches of yellow daisies, purple lantana,
and rainbows of roses:
red, pink, orange, and gold.
Fuchsia bougainvillea climbs a fence
onto a garage roof,
each flower like a cheering spectator.
A light wind bears a monarch butterfly,
like the Olympic torch flame
carried in a relay from breeze to breeze.
Landing on a sunflower almost as tall
as my five-eleven,
it’s like the fire reaching its cauldron.
I gaze back.
The butterfly is still there.
Picking up my pace, I wonder:
Can it watch me win?
Barbie’s Wheelchair
The newest Barbie doll
sits in her hot pink box,
inviting little girls
to glance at her wheelchair,
to ask why she’s in one.
Her smile beckons to the girls
to roll her down their hallways,
play hospital with her,
exercise her legs,
cure her all in one play session,
with hope that healing
can happen that quickly.
Her gaze ignites
the girls’ dreams of cures,
of patients walking,
leaving empty wheelchairs
to roll alone.
Sister Time
This October afternoon,
I walk through fallen leaves
to visit the friend
I think of as a sister
for the first time
since the doctor told her
the treatments weren’t working.
She greets me,
standing beside a shiny walker
she never needed until now.
She smiles that smile
I know so well
and gently puts her arms
out to me.
My muscles relax
in her embrace
warmer than the sun.
She sits in her armchair,
positioning her numb leg
with her hands,
so she’s turned toward me.
Her husband brings us ice cream.
We laugh over her Westie,
ball of white fur
running from lap to lap.
My friend’s eyes light up,
almost dancing,
just like I know mine are,
as if, for just this moment,
there’s no such thing
as cancer.
Jennifer Fenn has been writing poetry since high school. Her work has been published in seventeen journals, including Song of the San Joaquin, The Orchards, Brevities, Time of Singing, and Tiger’s Eye. She has self-published two chapbooks, Blessings and Song of the Katabatic Wind, as church fundraisers. She has won prizes in contests, most recently the Roadrunner Prize, awarded by the California Federation of Chaparral Poets.
Western sun casts its solstice brightness
on my straw hat and sunglasses.
I start my power walk,
my race against type I diabetes,
against the tortillas and Spanish rice I just ate,
my race to eat all I want
without getting a high blood sugar.
I walk past gardens of lawns still lush,
patches of yellow daisies, purple lantana,
and rainbows of roses:
red, pink, orange, and gold.
Fuchsia bougainvillea climbs a fence
onto a garage roof,
each flower like a cheering spectator.
A light wind bears a monarch butterfly,
like the Olympic torch flame
carried in a relay from breeze to breeze.
Landing on a sunflower almost as tall
as my five-eleven,
it’s like the fire reaching its cauldron.
I gaze back.
The butterfly is still there.
Picking up my pace, I wonder:
Can it watch me win?
Barbie’s Wheelchair
The newest Barbie doll
sits in her hot pink box,
inviting little girls
to glance at her wheelchair,
to ask why she’s in one.
Her smile beckons to the girls
to roll her down their hallways,
play hospital with her,
exercise her legs,
cure her all in one play session,
with hope that healing
can happen that quickly.
Her gaze ignites
the girls’ dreams of cures,
of patients walking,
leaving empty wheelchairs
to roll alone.
Sister Time
This October afternoon,
I walk through fallen leaves
to visit the friend
I think of as a sister
for the first time
since the doctor told her
the treatments weren’t working.
She greets me,
standing beside a shiny walker
she never needed until now.
She smiles that smile
I know so well
and gently puts her arms
out to me.
My muscles relax
in her embrace
warmer than the sun.
She sits in her armchair,
positioning her numb leg
with her hands,
so she’s turned toward me.
Her husband brings us ice cream.
We laugh over her Westie,
ball of white fur
running from lap to lap.
My friend’s eyes light up,
almost dancing,
just like I know mine are,
as if, for just this moment,
there’s no such thing
as cancer.
Jennifer Fenn has been writing poetry since high school. Her work has been published in seventeen journals, including Song of the San Joaquin, The Orchards, Brevities, Time of Singing, and Tiger’s Eye. She has self-published two chapbooks, Blessings and Song of the Katabatic Wind, as church fundraisers. She has won prizes in contests, most recently the Roadrunner Prize, awarded by the California Federation of Chaparral Poets.