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Journey to Healing

A two-year process.  An Artist and a Poet.
Addressing emotions and healing through their respective mediums.  The result - a Creative Collaboration called the Journey to Healing.  


The eyes have disappeared 

behind the patterns. 

The mouth is where the madness  

begins to show itself. 

The body riddles its way 

into the night.


When it’s finally over,  

listen to the choir of cells  

rejoicing inside you, 

loving you in your most 

imperfect form.                  

Just Talk

Apocalypse Body

The glass in the airway.

The microplastics

in the waterway.

The choked green of the grass

and the fiberglass of the sky.


When you get closer,

the glittering things

become sinister,

but it’s too late to look away.  


Gut Madness

They say that emotional pain

resides in the pelvis.


You think about the bad things

that metastasize,

the way our second brain

transforms nutrients

into a psychological soup.


You wonder if we’ll ever

be absolved.



 A girl torn from a myth.

A lily shredded by the hands

of an angry crowd,

rotting in the bowels like something

that resembles beauty,

a manufactured substitute

that causes cancer in rats.


How the words can reverse

themselves in your head.

How everything becomes

distorted in reflection. 




A belly pressed against the frame.

Steel arms stretched like specimens.


How many times can we beg them

to amputate our minds?


The skin hangs in the window,

drying like jerky, bones like glass

held together by pins.


The ecstasy of opening a window

to relieve the pressure,

the broken-down cross

like a placebo for pain.

Blood Sugar Earth

Everything is older now,

more forgetful.

The body struggles

to break things down

like the type-2 diabetes

of the planet.


Someday, the budding of a rose

will be a cataclysmic event,

glaciers melting like tears

around its thorns,

the type-O juices

giving birth

to the end of the world.



What takes months to repair

takes months to unravel.


Everything is a community of ghosts

dancing in the blue hour.

Everywhere, communities of cells

are multiplying in the rotting

networks of the body.


The irony of physics

is that you may not be able

to heal yourself without belief.



The freeway on-ramp

is a Rorschach.

There’s nothing you can do

to stop it,

but it’s easy to become

night-blind and vengeful,


easy to lie to yourself

until you can’t see

the color for the sky,

the peach trees exploding

like backfiring cars.


The Artist: Marcia Babler
The Poet: Rosemarie Dombrowski (RD)

Learn more about RD and her poetry at:

Catalog of collection available.  Use contact form to purchase.

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