Kristin Houlihan

Conversation with my son

“You all the way better?”
you ask, your too-big-to-
still-be-called-a-toddler face
lighting up with
HOPE
my heart cracks
more than my voice
as I smile and reply,
“Not all the way”—will I
ever be?—“but enough
to go to the park.”

Dear Body

I cannot trust you,
a superhighway
of rogue neurons
sending errant messages
to the brain.
But felt pain
is real,
even in the absence
of injury.
So I suffer anew
as I mourn
your betrayal
and realize you are
a liar.

I walked

bare feet slapping
the pavement
thoughtless but for one
repeating desire:
to feel.
I walked,
floating through the fog
and praying
my bloodied feet
would wake me
from the emptiness.

enemy of the gods

The malicious trickster swapped all my soup spoons for slotted and left me with a bowl of
broth. Lurking in the shadows, he’s always ready to steal a spoon or two, or add to the
collection only to snatch the newfound bounty from between my fingertips, precious vessel
disappearing like a mirage as I reach toward it or disintegrating in my hands like the ancient
wrappings of a mummy. Shapeshifting devil torments me; watching my pathetic, weakening
efforts to realize my inventory, Loki laughs.

Kristin Houlihan lives with her husband and four kids in California, where she writes poetry in her pajamas from the couch in an effort to understand life with a chronic illness. She loves reading, writing, and her family and seeks to participate as actively in life as her body will allow. Reach out to Kristin on Twitter @theedifyingword to chat books, parenthood, illness, and writing.