Miss Diagnosis

Swell

My body of water 
is the Pacific, 

a fluid flow expanding, 
receding,

a tide of discomfort 
too small, 

too big for one pair of 
jeans.

Drought 

 Desert sweeps
across your body

wells in your throat
desiccates your skin

your oasis is
parched

 the dustbowl
of the great depression.

60%

We are all numbers,
all dancing on graphs

not knowing which lines
we are in, which totals

we become, dreading if you
will be, my precious, vital

 one – 

the percentage that shreds
my body, heart and soul.

Handful of Air

The fog descends
as you drift by
tattering my body
while you feast on the shreds.

I reach out, grasp weeds
on the bank, desperate
to catch a handful
of air from the light slipping past.

Cyst

Pressure.
Piercing.

Ribs spearing
through me 
to my back.

Compression.
Sharp.

Devouring
me curled
up on my bed.

Agonizing.
Waiting.

Thinking we die
every day; some
days more than others.

-Molly Murray

Molly Murray is the author of Today, She IS (Wipf & Stock, 2014). Her poems, stories and essays have appeared in publications including Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Quarterday Review, From Glasgow to Saturn, Panorama, Fearsome Critters, The Wayfarer, The Windhover, and Ruminate.

She is the Assistant Outdoor Editor of Panorama: The Journal of Intelligent Travel, and earned her MLit in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow, and a Certificate in Creative Writing from the Oxford University Dept. of Cont. Ed. Summer School.