Poet’s Corner: “In the chemo room, I wear mittens made of ice so I don’t lose my fingernails. But I took a risk today to write this down.” by Andrea Gibson

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North, Senior Editor

“In the chemo room, I wear mittens made of ice so I don’t lose my fingernails. But I took a risk today to write this down.” Copyright © 2023 by Andrea Gibson. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 30, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.

Andrea Gibson, courtesy of the Boulder Library Foundation

Note: This poem is not in the public domain! Please use the link above to read it. 

I’ve loved Andrea Gibson’s work for years, and was heartbroken when they passed away not long ago. I’ll always recommend spending time with my favourite poem of theirs, “What Love Is.” But today, honouring the ways the world is raising awareness about cancer throughout April and May, we’re looking at “In the chemo room, I wear mittens made of ice so I don’t lose my fingernails. But I took a risk today to write this down.” 

The first thing you might notice is the length of the title: It’s two sentences, which we don’t see often. But this craft choice sets up the dialogue, structure, and voice of the poem. The title’s language doesn’t appear as succinct or compressed as the poem’s, and through its length and likeness to prose, it tells us how to read the poem: As something brave, as a risk. The content/subject is the act of bravery, but formally it’s supported by writing that begins as two prose-like sentences and takes the risk of becoming a poem instead, like the expansiveness of life transitioning into the (seeming) narrowness of death. 

In the poem, we encounter couplets and many pairs of images—gloves, life and death, etc. The couplet form seems to say 1) ‘this,’ 2) pause for a breath on the hinge of the line break, and then 3) ‘that.’ It’s almost as if the first line is a breath in and the second is a breath out. 

Similarly, there’s an ebb and flow of thinking one thing, and then another—fear followed by belief. The enjambed lines, often across stanza breaks, amplify this stunningly:

“I could survive forever // on death alone. Wasn’t it death that taught me /  to stop measuring my lifespan by length, // but by width?”

Further, the brilliance of this poem is that it reads as if Andrea wrote it down in a notebook (likely they did). But the precision of the diction, syntax, and images is carefully crafted. The woods challenge our notions and metaphors for death and darkness, for example. 

And then, time moves with Andrea’s thoughtful, patient touch.

The spaces between God, basketball, and balloons are presumably only a few seconds of thought, but the seconds of reading time slow and swell, mirroring the expansiveness of a balloon, a court, and God. The careful placing of images and metaphor enact this feeling. We move between time periods and time ‘owed,’ to literal outer space (from the balloon to the sky to the moon). And then we’re brought gently back to Earth, where death has been happening rather than coming. So often we think of the afterlife as “up there.” We look to the sky when we think of someone who’s no longer with us. But our bodies are “down there.” Down here, really. To remember—and be remembered—is to remain with the Earth. And as Andrea remembers their loved ones, we remember them, too. 

Writers Room | On the OSAP Cuts: Could We Have Stratified the Cold?

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North, Senior Editor

Two Black women in jean overalls strolling through a community garden

Dorrie sat down on the small stone bench by her plot in the community garden, running her palms over her expanded stomach. The garden was nestled into a small valley next to her old high school and city soccer field, and at 6:00 p.m., the sun set through the cool April mist that hovered above it. Dorrie closed her eyes to a cool gust of wind that swayed her long black braids across her back and shoulders. 

Andy, Dorrie’s four-year-old son, kicked a well-loved red soccer ball around the garden plots as if they were pylons to run drills with. He laughed loudly, curls flying across his freckled nose, which made Dorrie smile.

“Mommy Dorrie, when will the baby come out?” Andy called, breathlessly, having noticed the intensity of his mother’s fatigue growing each day. 

“When the spring peas and radishes come up, love.”

“When we see green! That’s what Mommy Tisa said. Why is everything still dead?”

“No, it’s just sleeping,” Nick replied with a grunt. Nick was Dorrie’s younger brother, presently churning the soil on his hands and knees. The small town had finally welcomed a warm day in March to check on the soil health and plan out the spring garden. The air, though, still smelled like winter—decaying leaves and exhaust, hovering cold and gray in the air. 

“Like you’ve been all through your senior year of high school?” Dorrie quipped with a playful smirk.

“I’m just tired,” he responded, with a tinge of frustration. 

“Oh Nick, I didn’t mean anything by—”

“I know you didn’t. It’s not you.”

Dorrie bit her lip and shifted her weight on the bench. She could feel the cold, flat stone bench through her jeans. 

“Do we have room in the fridge to stratify everything?” Nick asked curtly, straining to soften his voice.

Dorrie nodded, but didn’t speak, clasping her hands together over her stomach.

Nick looked up, saw his sister’s confused face, and swivelled around to face Dorrie, cross-legged in the soil.

“I’m sorry, Dorrie,” Nick said, “I’m just thinking about this whole OSAP thing today. I’m so angry about it.”

Dorried nodded. “I figured, actually. I heard many students were walking out and protesting.” 

Catching a slight tone of disapproval in his sister’s remark, Nick replied, “Yeah, I was one of them.” 

Dorrie narrowed her eyes with curiosity rather than judgment. “Why? I mean, economically, it seems to make sense—there are billions of dollars in deficit and more expected without change. I paid back all my student loans. Taxpayers, like Tisa and me, pay for students to have a grants-heavy funding program.”

“You did, but the cost of living right now is devastating. The youth unemployment rate is skyrocketing. Everyone thinks we’re only ‘complaining’ about having to rely on and/or pay back loans. But removing the domestic tuition freeze, which now allows institutions to raise tuition by two percent per year for three years, will be really hard for students applying to programs, before the three years are up and fees are adjusted for inflation. Imagine what it would be like for you and Tisa if one of you were in school or trying to go back to school.”

Dorrie pursed her lips, thinking. “You’re right. We’d never be able to afford it alongside child care and all the other rising costs of living.”

Nick nodded, looking down to separate a handful of soil in his palm.

“But I still don’t understand why everyone’s upset about modifying a mostly-grants program to a loans program? It’s necessary for sustainability, from what I know. It aligns with other provincial models. And the OSAP cuts only impact the forty percent that come from the province, not the sixty that comes from the federal government, right?”

“Well, first, it was a pretty drastic change—grants are now capped at 25 percent and loans at a minimum of 75 percent. But whether it’s necessary or not isn’t the point.”

Dorrie raised her eyebrows, as if to say, “Tell me more.” 

“What feels so inconsiderate is the information gatekeeping and lack of transparency. It depends on your application whether you’re eligible for federal versus provincial assistance. So it’s hard to predict financial aid to begin with. The calculator on OSAP’s website doesn’t offer a clear approximation—there’s a disclaimer that you could be eligible for more or less money depending on your application. The federal estimator only tells you federal numbers. And the calculators don’t factor in the cuts yet. They won’t until a bit later in the spring. I’ve already accepted my offer of admission, so how do I plan for funding?”

“Okay, yeah, I hear you. Changing grants to loans also radically shifts your financial plans—and our parents’—if you’re already in school or have accepted offers. And I think about people in their late twenties or thirties, like me, who might be returning to school.” 

“Exactly. And, it was known for a long time—almost ten years, since 2017—that the system needed reimagining. I’m not disputing that the structure could or even should be different. But, there were other, more considerate, phased approaches possible if so. But it’s been left to the last minute, and now, the only way to course correct is to make a huge change all at once, and for the students to take on the costs associated. 

“I hear you, Nick. It’s like climate change, and what costs fall on consumers when policy should have been shifted a long time ago.” 

Nick was still looking down at his hands, picking the cold soil out of his fingernails. “Yes,” he said, with a sigh.

Dorrie tilted her head and smiled. “Nick, I’m not sure what to tell you, truthfully. But what I can say is this: if we put the milkweed seeds in the fridge, they’ll invite butterflies here in the summer. Keep protesting and keep believing, especially when you feel trapped inside a refrigerated box with no way out unless someone else opens the doors. And when you feel powerless, seed hope—germination can be encouraged by the cold, damp innards of a fridge of all places. If the seeds continue to break out of dormancy, shedding hard coats to bloom each year, then we can keep going, too.”

Nick smiled and stood to wipe the soil from his jeans. “Thanks, Dorrie.”

“Always.” Dorrie smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “We’ve got little ones to fight for, too. It’s not just us.” She motioned to Andy and the baby she was carrying. 

Nick straightened his shoulders, rolling them back with a renewed energy. “Andy! Come on!”

“Are you going to stay for dinner after we put the seeds in the fridge?”

“Can I?” Nick asked as Andy ran up to him, slipping a little hand inside his. Nick looked down into little hazel eyes that seemed to say I trust you. 

“Absolutely,” Dorrie said.

Theatre Review: Inter Alia

by Alaina Zhang ​for The 44 North, Newsletter & Reviews Editor

Rosamund Pike. Photo by Manuel Harlan.

“We're all failing a generation of boys, and therefore we’re failing a whole generation of girls.”

Jessica is being fitted in her judge's robe for the first time. It’s supposed to be a glorious moment—a recognition of her success—but she feels more anxiety than pride. She watches her son Harry and her husband Michael look at her, then whisper something to each other. They laugh. She doesn’t know what they said. The room is full of mirrors, reflecting a harsh sun.

She wishes the whole process would quicken—numb the powerlessness. She’s worried this moment will tip the family balance; her husband didn’t get nominated as a judge…

A live theatre play written by Suzie Miller, which premiered globally in 2025, Inter Alia follows the journey of maverick London Crown Court Judge Jessica Parks as her son is suspected of rape. Mother, wife, judge—her life is a series of transitions between these different roles, until the rape case brings reality crashing down. These identities suddenly find themselves forced to pick sides. 

On one hand, the play is another story about teenage crime among others, such as Defending Jacob (2020) and Adolescence (2025). However, after seeing Inter Alia, I found myself thinking about what it means to live in a family where you’re the only woman. Jessica’s life is not an individual case, but one among many other women, wives, and mothers in the current age. Living as a wife who is always trying to protect her husband’s ego and a mother whose son is becoming more distant than ever, Jessica is in a constant loop of wondering if being “too successful” is the reason she finds herself alienated in her own family, and from the husband-son conversations she witnesses as a bystander. 

I was not fortunate enough to have seen this in person, but the charisma of live theatre was contagious even through the movie theatre screen. The Jessica Parks played by Rosamund Pike is so real in her struggle—her successful career is constantly overshadowed by the men around her, small violences that threaten to make her doubt herself and what she has achieved in an occupation also dominated by men. 

Recently, I attended a language exchange meetup where one of the topics was “Is it better to be married than to be single?” My mind drifted to Inter Alia. Yes, Jessica finds motherly fulfillment through her relationship with her son Harry, and romantic love in her husband Michael, but those familial relationships cannot be untangled from the legal fiasco which threatens to destroy her own independence and career. She begins to wonder if she failed as a mother. She finds herself becoming the lawyer she hates the most, defending a potential rapist against the words of an innocent young woman whose life might be ruined by sexual assault. 

As I heard the arguments for why being married was better, the one argument that was repeated over and over again was “You’ll be lonely if you’re single.” This was also spoken from a group of mostly women, citing their personal experiences, and something about it made me feel uncomfortable. 

Inter Alia, among other things, is a word commonly used in legal contexts to indicate that a particular assertion or claim is one of several possibilities. Marriage is only one lifestyle among others. Making loneliness the main argument and instilling a societal fear in women that not marrying is subjecting oneself to an unhappy life, is the very type of thinking that Inter Alia warns audiences against. I’d like to think that the play is not anti-marriage, anti-family, nor anti-children, but that it supports the many amazing, unique ways for a woman to live in the 21st century, not bound by phantom, patriarchal fears of solitude and misery.