Barbara Henning
PAPER CUT
In the waiting room, a man watches TV on his phone with the speaker on. I can still hear it when I take off my shoes, unhook my bra and lie down. Even when a needle slides into my spine. Even with three needles. A cold stream moves through my left leg. The doctor holds my hand until I’m standing. I breathe, exhaling slowly to rebalance, refasten my bra, put on my shoes and tie them with a double knot.
in this human race
we hobble along
pretending permanence
gusts of wind, leaves
ripped off trees
light intermittent rain
my new usual—
moving along
slowly without a cane
light white button down
unbuttoned shirt
blowing open
Miranda’s waiting for me at a corner table. Snap her photo—hair fluffy and free. This café was once a bar where Mike sat morn to night until the end when he asked Mook to please paint his room white.
a face full of wrinkles
a scar on a sycamore
imagining this fish
on my plate
squirming in the net
Yesterday, I took a car into the city to see Georgia. She’s chic and French, black sunglasses, stylish white blousy clothes. Says she’s always alone, but not unhappy, just working on her art and health. The same for me, I say. But you have your children, she says. She talks about her sisters and then reminds me—You also have your poet tribe.
someone to say
no worries,
it’ll all be ok
Outside I inhale exhaust particles and pollen and my lungs contract with less room to breathe. Small breaths. Small steps. The sun beating at 85 degrees. Down into the subway at 14th Street—the shopping cart—clunk clunk—hits each step. A hard hat guy looks at me. Quizzically. An overgrown shave. Round face. Strong body. He picks up my shopping cart and sets it at the bottom of the steps. Ha ha! I say. Empty and very light!
a brand new elevator
at 7th Avenue
a sign on the discount store
closing soon
The bus zooms uphill and drops me off in front of my building. Why do I always forget the name of the tree out front? It wasn’t around in Michigan when I was a child memorizing elm, oak, maple, pear, apple. Wax the leaves and put them in a scrap book. This tree is a round, thick shade tree. The tree app calls it a Basswood. Also called an American Linden. Two hundred year life span. Used to build electric guitars, popular with heavy metal. Yet linden tea soothes and reduces inflammation. Native Americans used its bark for making ropes and thongs. This linden is low, but the one on 12th Street is huge—“doctor tree” “tree of love” “tree of light” “feminine tree” “tree of justice.” Some think truth emerges under the shade of a linden. Some use its leaves to promote sleep and serenity. Some carry the bark in a small pouch.
unlock my mailbox
and find it empty
From our stoop, I watch a young woman slowly pass—thin, breasts pointing forward, short shorts, long legs and a look on her face that says, I want love. The other day ago a burly man picked me up in his cab. He had big arms, very short hair, a thick neck. Impatient and surly. I was frightened of him.
under the sparks
and stars
somedays I wonder
why
The anesthesiologist has hazel eyes. Please, I say, don’t let me drown in lung fluid. No problem, Barbara. In scrubs, Dr. Mullins is ready to meet his crew for an important mission. My bed and me rolling into an elevator and then into a big room with white light, equipment and people busily cleaning and setting up things. No wonder it’s so expensive—all these people. I just need to submit my body and mind, right? Yes, exactly, says the anesthesiologist. Then he puts the medicine into the IV. And I am gone gone gone. Vertebrae scraped, disk shrunk, sewed up. Two hours with no memory. Wake up in a different room. Hooked up, unhooked and on my way home. With my daughter. With my son. With my grandsons. So much love. This year, next year, maybe the year after.
Barbara Henning’s most recent books are—Girlfriend (Hanging Loose Press, 2025); Ferne, a Detroit Story (Spuyten Duyvil, Notable Book Award from the Library of Michigan, 2023); Digigram (United Artist Books) and Poets on the Road (City Point Press, with Maureen Owen). She lives in Brooklyn and is Professor Emerita from Long Island University. barbarahenning.com