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ambien 10 mg fdaPoet Antoinette Voûte Roeder

We are proud to celebrate with former poetry contributor Antoinette Voûte Roeder; Antoinette’s second volume of poetry, Still Breathing, is currently available through Amazon. “Whether it is writing about rain, kisses, a cup of tea, birds, God, prayer, Thomas Merton, the sea, clouds, hoarfrost, a beanpot, or aging, Roeder will captivate,” promises Reviews Editor Pegge Erkeneff Bernecker of Spiritual Directors International.

We hope you’ll take a moment to peruse the can generic ambien get you high. We featured Antoinette’s poem zolpidem 10 mg imprintin November 2010 on the Fertile Source. Roeder’s first volume of poetry, Weaving the Wind, came out in 2006.

Poet Janina Karpinska

Former contributor Janina Karpinska (Fertile Source published her poem zolpidem 10 mg 50 stück also in November 2010) went on to make a radio show based on her vision of the ideal holistic health center. Karpinska writes she created “a memorial for babies lost in early miscarriage, which I’d like to think was a way of writing a kind of creative birth certificate for the real thing to happen and ‘catch up’ at some point.”

Karpinska also related that the day she came to record the program, someone had disturbed the recording equipment. Karpinska writes, “I felt like I’d carefully developed and carried my ‘baby’ all week and then turned up with no techie ‘nurses’ on hand to help me deliver – and Then – the first attempt to record the show and put it on my memory stick failed! I couldn’t believe it – I thought it was an awful mirror of nearly losing my baby.” She forged on and managed to record her show. We hope you’ll take a moment to give a listen to obat paling ampuh untuk ambien.

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An essay by Elaine Greensmith Jordan

When the first baby laughed for the first time, the laugh broke into a thousand pieces . . . Peter Pan


 “A cow? You bought a cow?” I’m not really surprised. My sister left California civilization for the simple life on a Michigan farm.

“She’s got that gloomy look—has a white triangle on her face,” Connie says. “I do the milking every morning.”

“I can’t imagine it.” My California kitchen looks shiny, suburban.

We talk for a while, catching up on our lives. By the time I hang up the phone, I feel I’ve been milking that cow myself. Talking with Connie discourages me. Her voice intensifies my grief.

Connie not only has a cow; she has four children. The fact is absurd. She’s two years younger than I and has given birth four times while I’ve been teaching at the high school. Four babies! She raises her brood on a farm, of all things. With her husband and family she’s gone back to the earth like so many others during the Sixties. That too is absurd. We grew up in California, in the suburbs. Absurd or not, I want my sister’s role, mother to adorable children.

My sister wore toy guns in holsters and played cowboy. She liked to climb on to the roof of our house to frighten us. While Mother shouted for her to get down, Connie would wave to us from way up there, a sprite framed in blue sky. Now I imagine her a rural mother who ignores drooling toddlers and crying from the playpen, preferring her cow. I played with dolls when we were young. I should be the one with children. I could do a better job. I’d rush to wipe faces and offer pats. We wouldn’t live on a farm. We’d live near a library and a park, and I’d read to my children every evening.

My husband, Carl, in bell-bottomed trousers, a silky shirt, and long sideburns, comes into the kitchen, and we stand together preparing our breakfast, two tall figures—a flamboyant man smoking a cigarette and a prim schoolteacher holding her porcelain tea cup, a wedding gift. I gaze outside at the backyard, the view as suburban as my kitchen: green lawn with tree. Mattie, our black cat, tiptoes through the dewy grass shaking the droplets off her feet before each step, a dark shadow in a green world.

“Connie’s bought a cow.”

“Oh.” Carl takes a drag on his cigarette. He looks distracted, but I’m not sure how he feels. I can’t talk with him about anything, including my desperation. Our marriage isn’t like that. We’re too politically involved in civil rights (him), too busy reading important books (me). Before we married I rejected the boring men I dated and chose Carl, a man of high ideals. That’s what you do when you’re twenty-one. You choose high ideals. A boring man would look pretty good in this kitchen, I think. Sighing a dramatic sigh, I take a sip of tea from the pretty cup.

While I butter two pieces of toast I imagine Connie’s cow, barns, livestock, the smell of soil. “Want one?” I say. Carl shakes his head and I turn away facing the window again. The cat has disappeared.

We’ve been married for ten years and haven’t had enjoyable sex as we try to create a child. Each effort is mechanical, prompted by a doctor’s program for successful intercourse, whatever that is. I worry that I’m not a good lover, whatever that is. Carl lights another cigarette and snaps the lid of his Zippo lighter. The sound has the crack of the last word, a steely pop. Case closed. Then the screen door slams as he leaves with his coffee mug, headed for work. “Take it easy.” Maybe he’ll be home for dinner or maybe not. I don’t know where he spends time.

It doesn’t occur to me to leave this marriage. In my Sixties universe, women don’t divorce unless they’ve been attacked or find their husbands locked in the arms of a floozy. (We said floozy a lot then.) My options do include a cozier solution, a child who’ll bring warmth and love into our marriage. I’ve been having fertility treatments for months.

Emptiness haunts the spaces at home. I look forward to every teaching day, but when I return to our vacant house in the late afternoon, I suffer a headache. A friend tells me the pain might have something to do with my marriage. She thinks her insight is funny. I prefer to think my miseries are brought on by infertility, a condition easier to understand.

After school I’ll see a gynecologist again. Every healthy woman should be able to get pregnant, and I’m going to an expensive medical specialist who’s been trying to cure me. I trust that Dr. Brighton can find what’s wrong even though he’s started me on pills that leave me weepy. He’s tried painful procedures too—that he’s never explained—like injections into the vagina with a long needle and cauterizing the cervix (an unpleasant procedure with attendant smells) and some others I’ve chosen to forget.  

I rinse my tea cup and make my way along the path through the grass to the car-port. No black cat. No glance from her yellow eyes. When I open the door of the car and raise my foot to get in, I’m startled to see my blue terry slippers instead of the high heels I wore in those days. Slippers keep me in a soft retreat from fertility doctors and Carl’s neglect but will not do for the classroom, so I retrace my steps to the house, regretting having to return to a lonely place.

Driving to the doctor’s office after the close of school, I cry at the sight of my dreary face in the rear-view mirror. Thinking of my sister suckling a baby—or milking a cow, for God’s sake—makes me cry too. When I look back at those times, I see myself weeping in every setting: our empty house, in bed, fixing meals and the privacy of a car.

The brick medical offices are set back on grounds landscaped with red and pink camellia bushes. Only trained gardeners can grow camellias, Mother likes to say, so I choose to believe that the doctors in this blooming complex are trustworthy, though I’m not comfortable with Dr. Brighton. He seems to look through me, as if he’s heard my story many times and it bores him.

In the windowless waiting room, with its trailing spider-plant on a stand, I join a phalanx of silent barren women. (The word barren, used commonly in those days, described women who weren’t fully human, hadn’t fulfilled their role assigned by God.) The whisper of turning magazine pages breaks the quiet until giggles come from the staff behind the office petition. I know they’re laughing at us. Though I’d not become heavy with child I was nursing an oversized paranoia. I wish now I’d spoken to the other women, said some silly thing.

Dr. Brighton sits at his desk in front of an expanse of plate-glass. Why the waiting room had been denied windows and a huge one is reserved for this office strikes me as odd—not demeaning, just odd. An afternoon glare behind the powerful man puts his body in shadow. He doesn’t get up or welcome me but sits tilted back in his chair, nearly touching the glass, his arms behind his head. Even though I can’t see his face because of the gleam of sunlight, I sense an annoying cheeriness in him.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

“I’ve been crying a lot. I’m not pregnant.” I try to breathe. “What’s in these pills? Why does it make me so tired?” The tears come and I look away. “Some odd hair is growing on my—”   

With a squeak of his chair the doctor’s body comes forward out of the shadow. “Your clitoris should have enlarged. Wasn’t that a bonus?”

I hate Doctor Brighton. That my medical professional, a healer for God’s sake, could reduce the pain of being unable to conceive a child to the size of a clitoris feels wounding, as if I’ve been gored by knives. He’s Vlad the Impaler, a torturer. He doesn’t care or understand. Stunned as if smacked into awareness, I sit straight, awakened to new visions in the room. Shadow Man looks like a leering Jack Nicholson, and I turn from Cringing Child to Wolf-Woman. I’ll use my fangs and rip out his throat. The good doctor will fall back through the window leaving a mutilated corpse for his giggly secretary to find in the morning.

But mayhem doesn’t suit. Lady schoolteachers don’t murder people.

Saying nothing, I exit the office, slip past the secretary’s desk and rush to my car, wishing I’d been able to castrate the creep in the chair. Furious with my helplessness, I sit in the car unable to drive, sobbing. I’ll never submit again to an arrogant doctor. I’ll never have another infertility treatment. I’ll never get pregnant.

The drive away from the office is lost in memories of that day. There must have been California sunlight, camellias, houses and black cats, but I doubt if there were pastures or cows. Case closed.

Except the case hasn’t closed for me. I wish for another ending—that I’d had the courage to fight for myself and my wounded spirit hurt by insult. Since then, my fury has burned away grief, and I’ve turned that anger on narrow values of that time and the prevailing stupidities that I bought into. I was so influenced by popular thinking that I let myself be trapped by middle-class values—family values—imposed by the church and the media. “Ozzie and Harriet” was a television show I liked to make fun of, but I bought the whole package, the view of women as valuable only as mothersHarr. I couldn’t consider divorce? I wanted a baby to save my empty marriage? I was not the free thinker I thought I was.

We who are infertile are no longer thought of as inferior to fertile women, but the case is not closed. I wish it were.

***Note:  The Doctor’s name has been changed for his protection.

After a career in teaching and ministry, Elaine Greensmith Jordan now lives in Prescott, Arizona, writing personal essays to sort out the chaos. Her awards include the Nonfiction Prize from the Preservation Foundation and the Florida State Writing Competition. Her essays have appeared in South Loop Review, Alligator Juniper, Passages, The Georgetown Review, and other journals and anthologies. One has been nominated for a Pushcart by Arizona Authors. Excerpts from her unpublished memoir, Mrs. Ogg played the Harp: A Clergywoman’s Desert Odyssey, have won awards from the San Francisco branch of American PEN Women, Bayou Magazine, and the California Writers Club.

Check out Elaine Jordan’s interview with Jessica Powers, “buy zolpidem online india.”

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The First Test

We’d been talking children for
longer than it takes to make
a few, like discussing poems,
the abstract yoking
of our flesh with names—for a boy:
Keats, Townes, or Orhan,
for a girl:
Belen, Ketevan, or Ani,
these names creating ghosts
of those not yet born, possibilities
haunting our possible futures,
all those countries we may live in,
all those trips we might just take,
all those books I hope to write,
our looming move
to Ukraine—

And when I find on the sink
a conspicuously placed pregnancy test
showing two pink lines

pointing not to possibilities
but to a reality already set in stone
on the cave walls of your uterus—

a child—that sperm and egg
evolution to human in nine months,
those months becoming actual
months, our universe growing
outward on the cells inside you,

our future rising on the genes
we‘ve joined, and as I try to get
my head around this, I know
our cells are typing out
the DNA, ready or not,
a poem our lives are writing.

My Brothers’ Egg
You can’t birth triplets
without some divinity.
You can’t be a triplet

without being one third
a god. What other explanation
for cellular complication?

The unspoken command
that shatters one life into three
genetic clones that know

each other while developing
differently. Three with one blueprint
but separate footprints

that populate the ground behind them,
separate fingerprints that populate
everything they touch,

proof that each is his own even
as they share a face, a red head
of hair, a physiology

that can’t hide its similarities—
I say my mother and father
are one egg, one sperm—

they say their mother and father
are one egg, one sperm,
but, O, what force in the sperm,

O, how fragile the egg.

Visit Number Two

Two heartbeats in three gestations—
not the first heartbeats but the first
heartbeats we hear; silence
from the third, our second ultrasound,
the first one confirming
three. A disjointing
of our emotions—to hear two hearts
for the first time, our children! But then
no third. The doctor says, Good!
Normal; you’re not the right constitution
for three, and in Georgia a third is rare
and usually terminated. But I have three
brothers born in America to a mother smaller
than my wife. And in my mind
I’m listening to my brother Shawn’s heart,
Kelly’s, but Joey’s is silent—
a recurring dream now playing
out on this screen—the wand probing
not my wife, but my greatest fear—
our three children of ten days
have been diminished:
Baby A, Baby B, Baby Nobody—

Driving away, we are happy
to know two are healthy, knowing
all along this was possible. I repeat
the word, “twins” over and over,
trying to turn off the word “triplets”
recurring since I was ten:

more manageable, more than
manageable, life-changing, but
not as much. Two people, two babies;
lap symmetry, breast symmetry.

My wife says she’s read sometimes
this happens. The vanishing. But
our third is still there. Had grown
the last ten days. Maybe it’s shy,
behind in development, not yet
enough heart
to knock on life’s door—

I think of lost sheep, the one
that wanders away and will not
bleat. To go looking,
to follow its stillness, to hope—

Third Visit

This time, just anger.
She didn’t even check,
said the third is on the cervix,
sketched it
not alive, said it
would be reabsorbed.

I saw three on the screen,
but heard the two hearts, wanted
to hear the silence of the third,
just wanted to hear
the silence if
it has become a silence;
she didn’t even listen.

Timothy Kercher’s manuscript “Nobody’s Odyssey” was recently selected as a finalist for the John Ciardi Prize for Poetry; his translation of Besik Kharanauli’s long poem, “The Lame Doll,” is set to be published in the Republic of Georgia early next year. Kercher’s poetry and translations have appeared or are forthcoming in The Atlanta Review, The Dirty Goat, Poetry International Journal, The Evansville Review, Upstreet, Guernica, The Minnesota Review and others.

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Katherine Fraser grew up in Maine and graduated Magna Cum Laude with a BFA from the University of Pennsylvania. More information about her work can be viewed on her website, ambien prices walgreens.

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