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Editor's Note



Two Poems
by Lois Greene Stone

Emergency Room

My fingers circled smooth
transparent plastic that
cradled my nostrils. Could
I sneeze? Would clips come
out? Every twenty minutes
my arm was grabbed by
an inflatable cuff. Pump,
pump, pump. Whish.
Blood pressure. Noise.
Hallway sounds of
wheeled trays on tile
floors. Clank. Not
a trolley’s sound.
I liked trolleys.
"How are we feeling"
asks an attendant.
Can I say: scared


Nostrils were nudged by
smooth plastic tubing.
Wrinkles on the hospital
gown itched my thin frame.
A pillow felt like a child’s
rubbery toy but scented with
disinfectant. My toys once
smelled of my mother’s
Shalimar not Clorox.
Was I supposed to believe
the person watching blips
on monitors affixed to
smooth skin was
actually me? 


Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.

Copyright 2013, © Lois Greene Stone. This work is protected under the U.S. copyright laws. It may not be reproduced, reprinted, reused, or altered without the expressed written permission of the author.