By Veronica Tucker
Cancer 𖤓 | Pisces ⏾ | Aquarius ↑
In September, the clinic moths
die politely in the light box,
wings folded like discharge papers
no one read before leaving.
Outside, maples loosen
their red instruments.
Inside, I lift a splinter
from a child’s palm.
It comes out whole,
dark,
botanical,
a little coffin
the skin had almost loved.
His mother says thank you
like I have returned him
from somewhere
with rules.
I wash my hands
until the sink blooms pink.
By dusk,
the trees have finished
undressing.
Their leaves plaster
the ambulance bay,
each one bright
as something removed
before we learned
its name.
The child will forget me.
The splinter
will darken
in the trash.
Under the gauze,
his palm keeps closing
around nothing,
practicing.
Veronica Tucker is a writer, mother of three, and emergency medicine and addiction medicine physician in New Hampshire. Her work has appeared in The Offing, ONE ART, American Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, The House as Witness, was published by Quillkeepers Press in 2026. Her writing has received Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations and appears in Best Microfiction 2026. She writes about medicine, motherhood, memory, and the small moments that reveal more than they should.
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