The country I live in is called In-Between
Everything now so different —
though my cats are still here,
my overgrown yard, my husband,
the trees, the rocks, the star
wanderers in their constant canopy,
a kinship with limitless light
Three years ago I was happy and well
When a bump, a lump grew out of control
surgery, radiation, chemo
no point of orientation
staring at oblivion,
white as the curtain of crash bag
exploding with force on impact
How dare I possibly pull that young weed,
so avidly growing in green expectation
of sun, moisture, minerals
or kill mother wasp on our porch
— one season only to meet her goal
We share equal rights on this dying world
of bright and infinite sadness
The country I live in is called In-Between
I’ve passed through the door between
Alive and What’s Next?
I wait in the foyer of No-Where
to hear my fate — Now or Later?
My thoughts are of stars, progenitors of all,
finally sure they will welcome me home
—
Ginge Shontell is a retired grant writer and newspaper stringer. Currently, she is working on a collection of short stories and participates in a university poetry workshop. She lives in Southern California with her husband and four cats, deploring the blame we humans share for the damage we’ve done to this once-pristine world.
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