There is nothing more that we can do.
His mouth closed firmly like a window sash.
His face composed like laid brick.
Her every nerve thrumming.
His mouth closed firmly like a window sash.
Her fingers, face muscles, pudenda alert.
Her every nerve thrumming.
So it would be now.
Her fingers, face muscles, pudenda alert.
His cup, “World’s Greatest Dad” on his desk.
So it would be now.
No more tomorrow.
His cup, “World’s Greatest Dad” on his desk.
Her husband’s disembodied hand on her thigh.
No more tomorrow.
How will it be?
Her husband’s disembodied hand on her thigh.
The degrees floating on the wall behind.
How will it be?
There will be nothing.
The degrees floating on the wall behind.
The pores on his nose looming large.
There will be nothing.
And there is no God.
The pores on his nose looming large.
His white coat like hardened snow.
There is no God and
There is nothing more that we can do.
Elizabeth Hill
Elizabeth was a Finalist in the 2022 Rattle Poetry Contest, with her poem also appearing as Poem of the Day on February 20, 2023. She was nominated for the 2023 Pushcart Prize by Last Stanza Poetry Journal. Her poetry has been published in 34th Parallel Magazine, Boomerlit, SAND, and Catamaran, among other journals. She is a retired Administrative Law Judge who was responsible for suits between learning-disabled children and the school system. She lives in Harlem, NYC with her husband and two irascible cats.
