By Heather Phelan
Featured Art: “Leda” by Lesley Weston

My left hip moans, complains 
about my femur, who complains 
about some restricted range 
of motion. Two forces that used 
to glide unaware of the other, 
free floating in synovial fluid. 

I roll over to my right side, but 
nothing feels right. I stretch 
my left heel toward the bottom 
of the bed, hoping for relief, 
but my right shoulder can’t bear 
the weight, and I have to use 
my left palm to push onto my back. 

My friend tells me the same 
thing happened to another 
friend and that I may need 
a hip replacement. The internet 
says I may need hormone 
replacement therapy. 
My daughter tells me I just 
need a new mattress. I know 

I likely need all three, but 
my daughter’s suggestion 
is the one I try first. I tell 
myself it’s the lowest-lying 
fruit, but that turns out 
to be a lie I don’t realize 
I’ve told myself until I’m alone 

on the tester mattress in the store, 
my head on a disposable 
pillow protector. Staring up 
at the popcorn panels 
and fluorescent lighting, 
ignoring the families running 
from bed to bed, I close my eyes, 
breathe in, hold it for a moment, 
and push the air back out 
over my tightening throat. 

---

Heather Phelan is a poet and essayist. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in New Ohio Review, Steam Ticket, SLAB, and California Quarterly. Her poem “Endurance” is a finalist in Frontier Poetry’s 2026 Hurt & Healing Prize. She holds a Master in Fine Arts in Writing from Pacific University and studied English Composition from the University of Arizona.