Katie McMorris
Whenever I Mention Dropping Everything and Becoming a Farmer on a Remote Island
someone always brings up access
to healthcare. Good doctors never
live on islands. I try to protest,
but my list of ailments stretches,
branches off. Even my dreams
come with caveats: I couldn’t care
for a flock, couldn’t lift a sheep
from rugged crags, couldn’t chase
lovers over the hills just to reject
their proposals. Maybe I’ll die
young, still pretty, haunt the island
as a ghost. In life I’m always
“the sick girl,” the burden, the added
medical bill. In death I’m cocktail
party chatter, childhood folklore.
All the caves will know my name,
howling to swimming women. The
women will shriek, race up the sand
and collect their towels, saying, Oh,
that must be old Katie. They’ll run
home holding hands, grateful not
to have died yet, hoping a doctor
will come quickly if they ever need
one. And there I’ll be, wincing.
Watching through the window.
Katie McMorris received her MFA from Purdue University, where she won an Academy of American Poets prize. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared or is forthcoming in The Rupture, Booth, and the minnesota review, among others. She is currently a PhD student at Oklahoma State University.