Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas

 

Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas is a two-time Pushcart nominee and the author of two chapbooks: Litany of Finger Prayers, from Pudding House Press and Object of Desire newly released from Finishing Line Press.  She is widely published in magazines and online journals including most recently, The Centrifugal Eye, Oak Bend Review and deComp, with work upcoming in Breadcrumb Scabs, Past Simple  and Best of Boston Literary Magazine. She lives with her husband, five children and a blind dog named Ginger.

Two Poems (Issue 36)

Belongings (Issue 11)

Two Poems (April 11, 2012. Issue 36. The Late Issue)

Coming Home from the Hospital

I see them in their shrouds,
supermen in capes,
yet there's no flying through clouds of tulle;
no passengers,
riding safely on their backs.

I'm dressed in melancholy,
waiting to hear of your quick recovery,
as I sit like a squirrel
hiding in a wisteria tree,
making my nest there, until I'm told,
you'll live through another Christmas.

Tomorrow I will bring gifts
like one of the three kings,
and you will be my baby
swaddled in tubes.
With just a little luck,
perhaps a miracle,
will take place.

Evolution

The cutting board once
used to spread strawberry
preserves on toast, now splits
the dose of your blood pressure
medicine, two times a day
breakfast and dinner.

The regulator I used to dream
of with elaborate scuba gear
has now been assigned the arduous
task of supplying oxygen
to you with its uncomfortable
mask every night at bedtime.

The exact spot where I rested
my head with a pillow on the floor
to watch each new episode
of Jacques Cousteau has left red
dimples on my worn out knees.

Hail Mary full of grace
raise her to a better place.

Table of Contents

Belongings(November 20, 2009. Issue 11.)

“Not last night but the night before
Forty-four robbers came knocking at my door!”

When you called, I tried to soothe you
with the diversion of memories from years
gone by, but my mother’s casket came
to mind and the rose-metal crucifixes

nailed above ornamental handles, making
carrying possible for pallbearers dressed
in white gloves. A stream of random
thoughts began to punctuate every

passing second and somewhere a watch
was ticking loudly like a tittering girl,
reminding me time does stop. I worried
about saying the wrong thing, seeming

uncaring, when all I really wanted was
to be in fifth grade again, chanting songs
playing Double Dutch and sucking the ends
of pixie sticks, since  nothing I could say

Call for the doctor, call for the nurse,

would remove the word  widow attached
to your name and I felt guilty for being thankful
that my husband was asleep in the next room
dreaming of breasts, soft  places.

“call for the lady with the alligator purse”

Table of Contents

The Legendary