Jennifer Russell lives in County Cork, Ireland where she was born. She worked in the USA the UK and Ireland as a communicable disease specialist and as an academic She is now retired. She has been included in a number of poetry journals and anthologies including sHop, The Irish Independent and has published two pamphlets in 2019 and 2021 under Grey Hen Press.
cell stories
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before,
the one about the cells and the surgeon.
Yes, I’ve been told about the woman who was cured
by eating frozen fricassee of gourd
I don’t think I’ll try the coffee enemas.
I prefer my coffee served in tiny white Italian cups.
I had not heard about your cousin who won the battle
by prayer and fasting . No, sorry, I don’t mean to belittle.
They have chopped off my right breast.
I’m told M&S can fill in the gap.
I’m not keen on wigs or shaved heads.
I’ll stick to my scarf. It adds a certain pathos.
We have had a good time together, my breasts and I.
One will be less than half as much as two.
I find that I’ve joined an army
am expected to fight bravely
The final scene will be in the obit column
with a summary of my courage.
ambitions
there was more ambition on the top deck of the bus
the mines closed – smoking their way to cancer
I wanted to be able to go further across the fields to the city
but the bus took us every day to the hospital or the tire factory
that sad hospital
a box of fear
dripping fluids
coughing all night
they hated us equally
we Indian doctors and Irish nurses
the name-calling was very specific
‘you Irish’, the dying woman said
‘I’d even have one in my house’
it was easy enough to hold her hand
on the way back to the sad box
I had married into
I would look down at the gardens
washing lines and children crazy with energy
I wanted to break a window
float down to them
once an old boyfriend saw me at the bus stop
drove me away for the day
I can still feel the longing
to stay on the road forever
the smokers had found a way to die quicker
I had found a way to be unhappy
coming and going
do you remember
when we went to Vancouver?
Isabelle was still well
a terrace-full of sons and grandsons
she had stayed put for forty years
I was still schlepping around
circling like a dog
looking for comfort
do you remember
the Rod Steiger-like thug at the border
who made us get out of the car
I was too white and you too black
for us to travel together
then aha, adopted, he said
none of your fucking business
I didn’t say
I had to practice your form of survival
fold my arms
do you remember
on the way back I took a wrong turn
where are we going?
we’re going somewhere, you said
somewhere turned out to be a gas station
men inside on worn deep chairs
a wood stove
they turned to look at you
people do
but it was warm there
do you remember
I wanted to stay for a week?
rent imagined rooms upstairs
eat hashbrowns and eggs easy-over
walk the pacific beaches
but we filled up with gas
and drove south
you to your settled place
me to another few turns
you were quiet in the car
I strained my ears
not to miss a word
The Galway Review 