I love words and dig poetry slams. I've been writing poetry since I was about 5 years old and my mother tells everyone I was born with a pen in my hand. I am a project manager by profession and reside in Utah with my handsome husband and our two outstanding children. You can read more of my work and follow my poetry adventures here: http://trishhopkinson.com/.
We wait for tumors’ crude malignant growth
in brains, in breasts, in bones, in lungs, and limbs.
The cells’ descendants snub remedial
technique attempts. We wait for hearts to starve
from melancholy forced to apathy,
from plaque-blocked pathways—pure pathogeny.
We wait for dark dementia—wilt and wane
the intellect in logic, in language,
in recollection. We wait for foul plagues,
immune deficiency, and viral strains.
We wait with roses-colored flesh, with wet
and tilting eyes, with steaming breath, with chests
collapsing, lifting, in apprehension.
Artwork by Skyler Bradley
Author's Note: I’m proud and pleased to share my son’s artwork in Verse-Virtual this month. The drawing and poem are part of a chapbook collaboration entitled Emissions (read it online for free) that we worked on together back in 2012. This poem has taken on new meaning to me after Skyler, now 22, has faced and overcome what was likely the most difficult experience of his life. Last July, he was hit by a pickup truck while riding his bicycle in downtown Salt Lake City and suffered several severe injuries, including multiple skull fractures. After over two weeks in the hospital, and a couple of months of physical therapy, he has almost completely recovered, moved back to his apartment, and is back to work. Skyler has always been a thoughtful, conscientious, and kind person, but his strength, patience and ability to heal with such grace was amazing even to me, his mother.
©2016 Trish Hopkinson