November 19th, 2021
Three Poems
by Marceline White
My Son Studies the Stars
He makes calculations:
graphs numbers, forms equations
of stars in graphite, leaden
stars,math formulas
form galaxies—
if stars are math, which they
are and aren’t.
There is a planet, Farout,
otherwise known as 2018VG18,
which was recently found. Or
rather, recently discovered.
It was not lost.
I study letters, which I
assemble and reassemble
into formulas, forming words that re-
present the world: creating form from
26 letters rearranged into:
universe; galaxies; stars.
My son maps the distance
between stars. Numbers space, counts
the time between luminous balls of gas.
Each morning, I count out pills for my son;
chart his temperature, map his stretch marks,
star doctors’ appointments in calendars.
He is ill. See the
blood pooling in his feet;
see the purple patterns on his legs:
see nimbus;
see Orion’s belt.
No equation exists to calculate the weight
of this.
No words, either.
Marceline White reads “My Son Studies the Stars”:
Smoke
The smoke swirls upwards, filling small bedrooms, wafts over gray, worn furniture, floats through kitchens with gold-flecked Formica counters. It snakes softly, settles lightly on white picture frames, sheds smell like new skin, coating air, cookware, my hair with the toxic stench of old men, bars, char and charnel houses. Mom filled our house with Camel Lights, American Spirits, leaves wrapped in paper set aflame on the hour, their ashy remains forming cairns: memorials to deep breathing, a child, I played with chalky candy cigarettes, using them to point emphatically, gesticulate wildly, mimic my mom before eating the sugar sticks.
In hospice, her voice a rasp, her lungs rattling, she would just sit in her wheelchair. I would push her outside, her oxygen tank nearby, as cannulas serpentined through her nose, pure air singing through her body. Hands shaking, she would disconnect the tank, then tenderly light a cigarette, ablaze with desire, a longing ember in the cold, December night.
Marceline White reads “Smoke”:
Johns Hopkins Sues Patients, Many Low-Income, for Medical Debt*
I remember:
cancer (cancer)
type 1 diabetes
suicidal ideation
I V F
herniated, desiccated disc
an autoimmune disease that
makes my skin attack itself.
It costs
Ten grand a year to breathe
Thousands of dollars to try
not to live in pain. If
you survive a
suicide attempt, you have to pay:
$4,000 for a five-day stay.
I owe my life. I owe money. I owe debt.
Countless debt. Multiple collections.
The debt racks up. They call. I have
written letters. They call me
at work. I have done
payment plans. Still
they call. They continue
to call. Hospital bills
pile on the table.
The future is scary, an endless
battle. Our fence isn’t
fixed. There are holes in our
roof. Home repairs don’t happen.
No college fund. No retirement
savings. We two have
three jobs. I’m hiding my car
because it’s about to be
repossessed.
I’m drowning.
I pray and
I’m atheist.
I will remember
that I do not treat
a fever chart a
cancerous growth
but a sick
human being
whose illness may
affect
the
person’s
family
and
economic
stability.
My
responsibility
includes
these
related
problems.
if I
am
to
adequately
care
for the
sick.
A Hopkins spokesman
said, “When a patient
chooses not to
pay, we follow
our state-required
policies to
pursue reimbursement.”
*Found collage poem from the following news articles:
“The Hippocratic Oath Today,” Peter Tyson, Nova, pbs.org.
“Johns Hopkins Sues Patients, Many Low Income, for Medical Debt,”
“34 Devastating Stories About How People Are Still Crushed By Medical Debt,” Venessa Wong, Buzzfeed News.
“‘I Am Drowning.’ The Voices of People with Medical Debt,” Margot Sanger-Katz, The New York Times.
Marceline White reads “Johns Hopkins Sues Patients, Many Low-Income, for Medical Debt”
Marceline White is a Baltimore-based writer, artist, and activist. Marceline’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Quaranzine, Gingerbread House, The Copperfield Review, The Free State Review, The Loch Raven Review and others; anthologies including Ancient Party: Collaborations in Baltimore, 2000-2010, and Life in Me Like Grass on Fire. Essays, op-eds, and other writing has appeared in Woman’s Day, Baltimore Fishbowl, Baltimore Sun, and Mother Jones. When not engaged in activism, she can be found learning how to better serve her two cats, posting too many pictures of her garden on social media, and reminding her son to text her when he arrives at the party.
Photo: Trek by Jerome Berglund