Map Literary: A Journal of Contemporary Writing and Art
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  • Archives
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      • Poetry 2018 >
        • Carlos Hiraldo
        • Martin Ott
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      • Fiction 2018 >
        • Rebecca Pyle, "Winter Solstice"
        • Martin Rutley, "Job Offer on Seventh Heaven"
        • Matthew Baker, "Superhighway"
        • Matthew Serback, "How to Make a Boulder"
        • Pavle Radonic, "The Laboratory"
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      • Nonfiction 2018 >
        • Scott Wordsman reviews Petter Lindgren
        • Alexander Clark, "Postdiluvian"
    • 2017 >
      • Fiction 2017 >
        • Kathryn Holzman, "Eating Meat"
        • Kaitlyn Burd, "Nature with You in It"
        • Katie Young Foster, "Promotion"
        • William Cordeiro, "Selections from Whispering Gallery"
        • Alexandra Renwick, "The Life of an Artifact in Duodecadal Glances"
        • Lizzi Wolf, "My Brother's Therapist"
      • Poetry 2017 >
        • Keith Mark Gaboury
        • Mark Decarteret
        • Douglas Piccinnini
        • Matthew McBride
        • Jim Daniels
        • Sally Ashton
        • Raymond Farr
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        • Charlie Moses, "Dear Friend"
        • Pamela Woolford, "This Is What Happened"
        • Jennifer Martelli, "Phobiacompendia"
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      • Fiction 2016 >
        • Loie Merritt, "The Edge of the Sea is a Strange and Beautiful Place"
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        • Jeff Alessandrelli
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    • 2015 >
      • Poetry 2015 >
        • Adam Clay
        • Kyle Hemmings
        • Matthew Henriksen
        • Megan Kaminski
        • Emily Kendal Frey
        • Noelle Kocot
        • Katy Lederer
        • John Lowther
        • Nathaniel Sverloff
        • Franz Werfel -- James Reidel
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        • Erin Bedford, "Riesenrad"
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        • James Braziel, "Vittate"
        • Adrian Class, "Or Flights"
        • Erica L. Kaufman, "It Buried Us"
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        • Heather Noland, "Cosmic Slump"
        • Tom Whalen, "In the Cathedral"
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        • Rebecca Cook, "What the Hammer Said When the Hammer Hit the Girl"
        • Margot Kelley, "Companion Species"
    • Fall 2014 >
      • Poetry Fall 2014 >
        • Stephanie Anderson
        • John Buckley and Martin Ott
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        • Anne Gorrick
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      • Fiction Fall 2014 >
        • Matt Rowan, "Dog's Best Friend"
        • Kelli Anne Noftle, "Before She Was Olive"
        • Chris Okum, "Ratatat"
        • Jon Fried, "Cashing In"
        • Lisa C. Taylor, "Visible Wounds"
        • Sarah Kahn, "Break"
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      • Nonfiction Fall 2014 >
        • Stephen Benz, "Night Then Morning: Elko, Nevada"
        • Joseph C. Jiuliani, "Of Stealing and of Being Stolen"
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        • Robert D. Vivian, "Just After Rain"
    • Spring 2014 >
      • Poetry Spring 2014 >
        • Simeon Berry
        • Molly Brodak
        • Wyn Cooper
        • Brian Foley
        • Tim Kahl
        • Caroline Knox
        • Rob MacDonald
        • Benjamin Paloff
      • Fiction Spring 2014 >
        • Gareth David Anderson, "Cupcake"
        • Halsted M. Bernard, "Your Hands"
        • Patrick Cole, "Pick-up Lines"
        • Joshua Graber, "This Fine Experience"
        • Lola Grace, "Natural Birth"
        • Robert E. Tanner, "Non-Disclosure Disagreement"
      • Art Spring 2014
    • 2012 & 2013
  • Pedagogy
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KARYN ANNE PETRACCA


​once more, in the ladies' room    
 

the stall’s one of those where i can’t fit 
my chair inside, so i’m peeing half-public
 
most people have the decency to avert
their eyes and say nothing, but not her--
 
from the neighboring stall, "aren't you
glad to be disabled in america?"
 
jesus christ, this is a new one
 
i can’t help but ask, through the metal wall--
supposed to be a barrier--what she means
 
"well, in other parts
of the world, like africa,

you would be shunned, ostracized, bedridden."

(i am paraphrasing)

"here you have a wheelchair, options, privileges.  
you are lucky, no?"



brace yourself
 

she was a friend of yours,
so i had no guard up
 
when you introduced us,
the wheelchair took her by surprise
 
her eyes widened, and
she said the first unfiltered thing:
 
“that doesn’t look like much fun.”
 
i couldn’t resist--"actually,
sometimes it’s a ball.”
 
maybe my reflex sarcasm is just
as cruel, i don’t know,

but i had been hoping
for a simple, "hi,

it’s nice to meet you.  
i’m really looking forward

to this concert, 
how about you?”

now i always insist:  
tell people before they meet me--
 
she is my life partner.
brace yourself, behave yourself, 
 
you will see a wheelchair.




those gentle-incline ramps
 
i met gregg at a “wheelers” (good god) picnic one day
potluck, i think
 
dave, not yet sober, was grilling in the backyard 
and laura, lovely leader and organizer of us all, 
was doing the introductions
 
gregg was late, if you can be late to that kind of thing,
 
and came, grinning and careening 
down the ramp, half-bald and wearing a hideous hawaiian shirt
 
his sunglasses were pretty cool though
and i knew immediately, he was well-adjusted
in his chair, 
 
and i was just getting started
 
he had my attention, and apparently i had his
i was a vision or something, whatever
 
he was a charmer from way back, 
definitely pre-wheelchair, whenever that was
 
he pursued me, and i was cautious curious
 
the affair was short, and i don’t believe in angels, 
but goddamn if gregg didn’t come along at exactly the right time 
and save some essential part of me
 
i watched his upper body, massive and capable, 
do it all and then some
 
i will never be that strong, but because of him 
i know i can try
 
he took me to the mall to practice 
on those wimpy gentle-incline ramps 
 
they kicked my ass 
(more specifically, my notably underdeveloped arms)
 
i cried and he soothed, 
and i let him
 
it was almost as though he’d gotten a memo:
 
this lady’s in trouble. 
MS, wheelchair, a whole ugly mess.  
 
she’s sure she’ll never be loved again.  
see what you can do.

 
he had his own modifications/accommodations--
 
paralyzed from someplace well above the penis
no fluids, a bunch of viagra
 
rarely have i felt so desired, 
 
and to this day when we talk,
which we don’t very often,
 
he never fails to recall my superlative sensuality, 
sex that apparently still makes his current 
 
girlfriend suspicious, no matter how many ways 
she can bend her body



first, do no harm

the nurse assigned to my case
has mad impressive eyeliner skills
which is tangential
 
she visits monthly
to monitor my head-to-toe health
and keep my comprehensive care
humming and greased 
like the fine engine we both know 
it will never be
 
she was here friday 4pm
when my daily neurological wind-down 
begins to threaten
 
and i tried, but couldn’t
laugh at the joke whose punchline was--
i’m pretty sure--
an allusion to her happy avid sex life
 
she was promising to “fight for my orgasm,”
which sounds like serious feminist advocacy
and i tried, but couldn’t
feel grateful
 
i don’t know--
i’d rather fight for my own orgasm
 
but see, my orgasm is in grave danger
because every catheter pushed into my urethra
is very close to my clitoral nerves
and they could die
 
or i could have a hole drilled
into my bladder 
and wear a tiny tube with a discreet plug--
a whole new way to pee
and a total clitoral win
 
also there is sludge stuck somewhere
in my bladder, harboring bacteria 
and upping the risk of more infection,
which she calls “urosepsis”
which is directly linked to pneumonia
 
next time she will bring me
a pulmonary exerciser to ward off
this horror too
 
and when she does, 
she will dance through my door
holding it aloft and exclaiming, 
it’s christmas!
 
i am, like, wowed
she is a tremendous wealth of knowledge
and i can’t help it--
my brain keeps circling back to this--
she will fight for my orgasm
though she doesn’t use a fancy medical term
for that
 
i tried, but couldn’t 
appreciate her certain diagnosis
of deep-tissue something-or-other
(for this she even has an abbreviation!)
on or near my ass
 
there is a prophylactic paste 
for this condition
which she spells on my folder with a sharpie
 
just before she leaves
she says, 
ok, i think you’re going to make it.
 
which is meant as reassurance
and i tried, but couldn’t
quite see it like that
 
i felt seriously fucked,
all the way down to my clitoris



volunteering at the school library 
 
a fifth-grader calls down the stairwell,
what you got, is it courageous?
 
i already knew she had a vocabulary problem
she’s a sweet, tough kid
 
i can’t help but smirk
i love this situation
 
i answer the question i know she meant to ask
 
i think you mean contagious.  
and no, it isn’t.  
 
not even a little bit.
 
you could hug me all day, 
and i promise you wouldn’t get multiple sclerosis.

 
i don’t answer her original question, 
but sometimes, sure, it is
Copyright © June 2018 Karyn Anne Petracca

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Karyn Anne Petracca is from New York. She now lives in Wilmington, NC, with her partner, Ken. She also lives with MS. She enjoys wheelchair-accessible frolicking, almost all homemade baked goods, and re-reading Infinite Jest.

published by
The Department of English
College of Humanities & Social Sciences
The William Paterson University of New Jersey
Copyright © 2012-2021 Map Literary
Map Literary

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