Thoughts of a half-dead woman
Since I was twenty-nine
doctors have been telling me
I am nearly dead.
There’s a strange freedom
in being
a half-dead woman.
Risks
are not measured
by what is lost—
but whom.
Regrets are not
what I failed—
but what I didn’t say.
I remember the name
of the man I didn’t kiss,
the soft leather satchel
I didn’t buy,
the hour
I could have called my dad
one last time,
held Gino on my lap
for one more meal
before I let him go.
I have a few of those regrets now.
I would rather be loud
love too hard
say and think and be
too much
than wonder
what
I’ll leave behind.
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Janette Schafer is a poet, photographer, playwright, and realtor raised in Michigan and living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, for 30 years. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Chatham University. She is the author of three collections of poetry and the chief editor of two poetry anthologies. Her writing and photographs have appeared in numerous journals, newspapers, and websites, including Vox Populi, The Missouri Review, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and Eunoia Review. She is a winner of the Academy of American Poets Prize.
