Perhaps it was the chowder


An image of a brown cow, its head close to the camera and in focus. The rest of its body and a field can be seen blurrily in the background.

Perhaps it was the chowder tonight

that made you say on the phone, that

a cow was tied to your hospital bed.


I’m used to the upside down of your words

but couldn’t form an answer, & the

answer didn’t need to be


the end of all the questions. We didn’t

need to know if it was the chowder

or the cow, only that the


trees tapped the windows as slippery

dancers outside your room, & where

I was, in the gray of an


empty fireplace & a green

chair where you used to be,

I want to be there to hold


your hand & talk about the cow.

I want to know what you saw,

that kept the metal bedrails from


enclosing you, the merciless grey

linoleum room with the sounds

of nurses’ soft shoes sift down


the hall engulfing you. Perhaps

it was the chowder, & I want to

taste it with you & talk


about that cow, her intelligent

eyes, tawny skin, & why she is

standing right there for you to touch.



An image of Lynn Finger, a person with shoulder-length gray hair looking into the camera and smiling slightly.

Lynn Finger is a trauma therapist who writes poetry, and her writings have appeared in 8Poems, Perhappened, Wrongdoing Magazine, Book of Matches, Fairy Piece, Drunk Monkeys, Corporeal Lit and is forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic. Lynn also is an editor at Harpy Hybrid Review and works with a group, "Free Time," that mentors writers in prison. Follow Lynn on Twitter @sweetfirefly2.