Welcome to a Plymouth Writing Project writing showcase.

The Final Chorus at the End of Forgotten

All nursing homes reek. The one Dad is in is no exception. Immediately upon walking through the door, I feel like I am drowning, like I am underwater. The smell is hung long, and strong, like a smoldering curtain across the space. It is smothering. It slaps me in the face, and clings thickly to the edges of my nose, and lies across my skin. Later I will need to shower, and to change my clothes to get away from it. But still it permeates everything, inside and out. It has infected my thoughts. I cannot think of my dad now, without smelling that horrible odor.

phantom

they tell him the foot is gone
the left one
and most of the shin

he's not feeling lucky yet
but he smiles

the morphine smile
a little piece of one
floating free from a bag a nurse delivers

ramirez and carter
caught the same round
and flew home flag-draped

and stillman and gone-t
are stuck in the dad
post-traum he bets

his left foot is gone
his eyes confirm it

but uncanny's the word
for the shadow that remembers the member:

its blistery ache back in basic
the cool high school tension of tendon
on bone
the soft pleasant pang in his arch

Drop Off

Eight fifteen, car duty,
Walkie talkie in hand
Ready to accept
The fragile cargo
Waiting for delivery.

Jillian, handle with care,
Wrapped in Limited II
And perfect headband.

Keith, rumpled in transit,
Tumbling from the van
Trailing juice boxes
And cookie crumbs.

Taylor, a rush delivery,
Flying out of the Bronco,
Casts a perfunctory wave.

Ali, breakable,
Jerks away from mom,
Defiant, stomps off.

Shanna, postage due,
Just five with morning hair,
Once lemon dress,
Flopping in on
Too big shoes.

A Prius mom clutching
A fluff of a dog

Addiction

Addiction

By Suzanne Moberly

She achingly rolls over,
reaches out to the rickety bed table,
fumbles for her Marlboros and lighter,
snaps on the sliver of butane, and takes
a long, deep drag.

Raspy, phlegmy coughs
rattle up through her lungs.
The ratty-furred, black cat cuts
through the smoke, arching and
stretching his way up the bed.
He narrows yellow slits and knows from experience
that nicotine must come before breakfast.

Her gaze follows the wisps of grey curling around the room.
She shifts,
swings her legs off the bed and plants

Junebugs

JUNEBUGS

By Suzanne Moberly

A bladder, compromised by five births,
Awakes her in the night.
She flips on the bathroom light
and revels in the sweet release
when she spies them
Marooned on blue-white tiles.

Five – two larger in the center surrounded by
Three smaller versions of themselves,
immobile, observing their elders,
inverted flailing, hard, top heavy oval husks
Trapping them on the floor.

Was this how they looked to their three?
Stuck, flailing, unable to help one another,
Paralyzed with the precarious
unbalanced weight of life.

Hurt

Hurt
By Suzanne Moberly

“When he started doing drugs, that’s when Derek started to change,” reported Ethan.
“I think it was when his parents divorced,” hypothesized Kara in response.
“Nah. It was the nastiness of his parents’ divorce that really did him,” Crystal interjected, apparently considering herself the reigning authority on Derek’s aberrant behavior.
“He used to be my friend, but who wants to hang out with someone who’s stoned all the time and is constantly in trouble at school?”

Rainy Season

You would think the sky would run out of rain
that whatever reservoirs fuel these inundations
would dry out, that every cloud would be wrung out
but still it continues. The streets run like rivers
for cars to ford, sending up curls of water
to drench helpless pedestrians, who huddle,
standing on seats at the bus stops,
craving shelter as water rushes
beneath their feet. Walking becomes impossible.
Even when rain is not falling, it hangs in the air
and our arms stick to chairs, our legs to seats
and it coats us, driving us to wash it off