he poem was inspired by the unending struggle of the world and its continuous demand in our blood, where we must keep striving to stay afloat. In the last part of the poem, I demonstrated how at that point I was okay with much the world has to offer me, and was willing to not keep spending my blood.

“Tropical Fish” is a relic from my childhood and mostly true. I had an aquarium in my bedroom, and my dad and I spent a lot of time staring at those fish.

I first wrote this poem back in 2020. I’ve been a lifelong fan of horror and was helping a friend start to get to know the genre. One of our conversations centered on just how many different ways a horror character can be haunted, and thus this poem was born.

There is so much we don’t know. I’ve often stood in ankle-high grass wondering what lay deep beneath my feet . . . and what lay beneath that . . . and beneath that. This poem is my way of exploring history, legacy, and inevitability.

“Alternate Rooms” was inspired by the duality of the perception of my being. At the tail end of my struggle begins a parallel eventide of my escape which is mostly a surrealistic beauty that springs out from my ruins.

I can’t recall the precise moment of inspiration that spawned this poem, but it’s a merger of two unsettling notions taken to terrible extremes. The first is the helplessness experienced while vomiting and the awful thought I’ve had in mid-spew: “What happens if this heaving doesn’t stop?” Second, the realization while browsing treasures at estate sales: “One day, the evidence of my life, too, will be laid out on display, labelled and bargain-priced.”

As for the process of writing the piece—this was one of the pieces I wrote with fellow writers in a weekly writing session where someone gives a prompt and we each take an hour to create something. I have a fascination with the bubonic plague and fairy tales so I wanted to combine those elements. I got the idea of burying someone by a tree from “The Juniper Tree” story. My medical profession also helped in the making of this poem—since I’m a surgeon, I can actually say I’ve seen a couple of human hearts that really resemble fruit.

Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s run in the family—both paternal grandparents had it, now my father, and it often feels like a neurological heirloom waiting for me. I wrote this poem after accompanying my father for his monthly Parkinson’s checkup and wanted to convey how surreal a doctor’s diagnosis can feel when it’s essentially telling you your body will eventually feel like a stranger.