"Cathartic, surreal at times. I am reminded once again to think of Frida Kahlo, and all the women warriors I have known, and know of. I honor and applaud Barbara McKee’s metamorphosis. Trilogy of One will transplant you to another dimension, perhaps one you have never known…"
Socorro Romo, Author of Tiliches 1994, and No Artificial Anything 1996
"A purification through pain, moving towards redemption. These poems do not just bear witness to one soul’s struggle for redemption, but that they are in fact inseparable from the struggle itself. This book took guts and it’s all here: the darkest and the brightest, demons and joys, dreadful despairs and startling revelations. It has a life of its own." Mitch Rayes, Editor of Flaming Tongues "Barbara McKee’s poems ring with emotional honesty and they put into words the bravery required of the examined life. The poems and essays gathered in "Trilogy of One" remind us that while life is painful, there is also a sweetness to be savored. Here is a fine writer who is not afraid!Thandiwe Shiphrah, Author of Meop 1999
A n n i v e r s a r y D a y
Today is that day again. Every year it comes and goes, but this year is different from the rest. I remember today.
The memories rage back through my brain. Whitewater rapids of feelings and images. Flashing by like sudden rocks in a river, only to disappear under waters of pain and loss.
All the happenings of that day have surfaced in peculiar ways.
I remember walking to the bathroom in my hospital gown, not knowing it would be the last time I would see the world from that viewpoint. The smell of the antiseptic as the nurse plunged a needle into my hip. The burning of the drugs as they numbed my body.
I remember being wheeled down the hospital corridor, counting the ceiling tiles as voices talked over my head, as if I were a piece of furniture. The elevator doors closing on my mother, a look of quiet panic in her eyes.
I remember looking up at the anesthesiologist, telling him that I smoked, "but don’t tell my mother". His smile told me he wouldn’t, a look of trust was exchanged for an instant. I hated that claustrophobic feeling when they strapped my body down in the shape of a cross. Suddenly, I was the sacrificial lamb. Totally aware of the slaughter.
100, 99, 98, 97….then the world went black. My throat was raw, like someone had taken a tree branch and tried to make me swallow it. I was incredibly cold, shivering so violently that I thought I was on the verge of death.
Opening my eyes, again the ceiling tiles were there to greet me. Sounds of machines performing as human body parts blipped and pumped around me. The tubes running out of my body felt like chains. As I struggled, my stomach conveyed what my mind couldn’t comprehend. I vomited, my former life spewed from me in wretches.
I awoke later in a dark room. My right forearm strapped to paper-covered cardboard. Blankets covered my legs, but I could not feel them. My body was in an ache that is indescribable. My mind was in a fog. I was in purgatory.
The nurse came in to turn me over. She had to tell me several times. I didn’t understand that I could no longer do it myself. As I rolled over to my left side, she pushed my lifeless legs with a gentle hand. Then comprehension took over. I begged to be sent to oblivion, and she obliged with a loaded syringe of denial.
That first night in my new life lay dormant for 27 years. That’s how long I’ve lived this way. But I didn’t remember until today.
Copyright Ó 2002 EclecticPankyland Productions, Inc. Distributed by
EclecticPankyland Productions, Inc. www.pankyland.com
