I talk you talk we'll talk



Kieran Levi

(x = space)



Kieran Levi



He has been wonderfully named

Kieran for his Irish father

Levi for his Jewish mother

But he has gotten sick

With a respiratory disease we are told

Is severe and contagious

Over the weekend, his temperature dropped

From 102 to 99,

Which is something

My brother, his grandfather

Sent us a message with a photograph of

An infant surrounded by machines

If you have a moment and don’t mind,

Please pray for Kieran Levi

Birth might be traumatic

And three months is just a start


C L Couch



Photo by Yoksel 🌿 Zok on Unsplash


Pity the Party

Pity the Party


Wow, pain is such a disconnect

Like depression

That I also take a pill for

What is there to care for?

What do I care about?

Who cares for me?

I have accoutrements

A blanket ‘round my shoulders

While I’m cold

Toast (the start of a loaf)

Some grapes (the last of them)

I gave up coffee and caffeine

As if it were my own form of Lent

Though I can’t recall

A decision for

The sake of my soul


Pills have side effects

These press down, too

I am surrounded

The best thing that I have

Are movies

But I’d rather be the artisan

Than the spectator

So sit up to write

A little more


I’d rather make

Than borrow off

Another’s making

I mean, there’s allusion

Citation when it’s proper

Or otherwise might render

A source beyond reach

If not belief

Or to leave it all, hoping for

Belief in the beholder


Well, some system

Is protesting

The strain of illness

Or the medication

Most of this I doubt I’ll leave

Though there might be something

I can’t see or hear

That someone else

Much better at beholding will


Do I pray?

I do and hope for more

But I haven’t a perspective

The thermostat is broken

Someone else must regulate

What happens next,

Which is what I think

The praying’s for


C L Couch



Image by ImageParty from Pixabay


Origami Transportation

Origami Transportation


How close am I to

Earth when

Help would push me

To the sky

And pain still wishes to

Pull me to the ground?

I guess I speak of

Medicine and illness

And the rips, the tears they make

Ideally with coordination

(patch over wound)

But with parts of the heart

Still pouring over into

Nets of capillaries



What can artificiality construct

(what can making make)

To that will mend with

Flesh parts that have

Been hung for years

Red, brown, freckled, white

Flesh like bird-feathers, birds

Waiting on a branch to fly

Once the banding’s done?


Fly so well, then?

Metal and claw, we have to hope

Human mends

Steel and plastic

Cotton, nylon fiber

Chemicals repurposed from

Repose inside the Earth

Give it all a chance


The gently shackled bird

The patient with medicines

In binding


C L Couch



Photo by Nikoline Arns on Unsplash





I shouldn’t write when sick

I shouldn’t do much of anything

I shouldn’t commit myself to what

Might need defending

From ignorance, later on



When I write some truer part of me leaks out


And that seems good

Maybe healthy—I don’t know

Because I am not whole


Because I breathe in parts


C L Couch


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