Author: Sandee Gertz

At the Cardio Clinic

Written by Sandee Gertz. Posted in Poetry.

Little white desk, little white lies
A purple plastic replica of a human heart
Hinged to open for explanation, a heart that never beats
“Moon River” drifting from the ceiling.

Nurse Sandy, dressed in paisley scrubs
Checks my vitals, consults my chart
Touches my hand, her hand a feather
Does she know I’m about to get bad news?
Is she touching a dead man’s hand?
No, she says her heart’s been broken 
Her partner vanished, a sunrise surprise
He’s taken the dog , the Wellbutrin, the blender
Now the majesty of sobs, the whisper of apology.

Dr. Dan enters the room, tan leather loafers aglow
Doctor’s cologne, a professional smile
4.3 stars, often a long wait, rude staff
Stethoscope dangling, ignoring Sandy’s heart
For mine, listening to the churning of my heart
Nothing has changed so keep up the meds
Feed the heart the blue, the red, the yellow.

The plastic heart wants to open up, for Sandy.
My heart murmurs its message: can’t be fixed
But Sandy’s can. Dr. Dan is gone, co-pay then I’m out.
In the cave of the heart, we are all on our knees.

about it

Written by Sandee Gertz. Posted in Poetry.

wood fired pizza
menued	trailer
back open mouthed
can we get safe
ice cream now
you haven’t finished
your slice i love
pizza not all
kinds collapsible
desk thumps into place
phone cord plugged in
i like pizza too
for two or one
dream or two
in action even if action is only
talking about it      laughing
about it       being about it

Underneath

Written by Sandee Gertz. Posted in Poetry.

I was born
on the dark side of 
a pinkish moon

between two suns
 on a Thursday 
morning in August

when hail melt
filled the streets with strawberry lemonade 
while

my parents mended
 their 
marriage on the spot

for the first of
many times and my mother in
 her sweet young voice

sang a soft lullaby of stars
 and snowflakes
and gentle beasts that roam

the jungles and savannas
underneath what I’ve come to know as the other side of
 a tilting whirring swirling dream.

Making Love in a Double Wide

Written by Sandee Gertz. Posted in Poetry.

What I remember most 
about your bedroom was
the view through one of
the two windows that looked

out onto a red maple. When
we first met, I would watch
the leaves on that tree change 
slowly from their gay summer green

to an autumn maroon, as we lay, naked, 
untangled, on weekend afternoons, 
divorced, each with a daughter, knowing 
even then we had no future together,

you with your horses, boots, and 
line dancing, me with my East Coast 
education and trench coat draped 
over my arm. I never said it would

work, never dreamt of still owning
each other in the spring, when the tree 
outside your bedroom window in that 
trailer park up north began to drip

with snowmelt, the blossoms 
appearing, to me, for the first time, 
the noose of time being lifted from 
around my neck, the thick ice in

Horsetooth Reservoir breaking up, 
cracking in the warmth of the March 
sun, while the last galaxies of 
tenderness were shared between us.

From Crescent Beach

Written by Sandee Gertz. Posted in Poetry.



Way out there
          the gulf stream-river
steams
dreams, flows over
           the great tilt
past smaller countries
           within reach
warmed, green
quiet wading great fields
            of ocean
of cloud, to african
            beaches
or up through 
celtic seas to poles
            too big for 
eyes.

Groanings

Written by Sandee Gertz. Posted in Poetry.

The woods chatter like a million skulls
cicada-full, louder than I’ve 
         heard

a drove, a teeming gone at sundown
replaced by aurora-silk 
         flags

waves, movies on hazy sheets spread
east to west, 
          dark

in the greening piedmont, the slope
a tilt, wide—and groaning for 
          fall-lines,

O the watershed, the characters living here
among and above, around these holy open 
          fields

alternate their sleep and wakings
then post it all to the 
          sky.