Dear Pancreas
poems by
Lisa Wiley
~80 pages, $15 (+ shipping)
Projected Release Date: September/October 2026
An Advance Sale Discount price of $9 (+ shipping) is available HERE prior to press time. This price is not available anywhere else or by check. The check price is $13.50/book (which includes shipping & sales tax) and should be sent to: Main Street Rag, 12180 Skyview Drive, Edinboro, PA 16412.
PLEASE NOTE: Ordering in advance of the release date entitles the buyer to a discount. It does not mean the book will ship before the date posted above and the price only applies to copies ordered through the Main Street Rag Online Bookstore.
Lisa Wiley is an English professor in Buffalo, NY where she is nominated for the SUNY Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Scholarship and Creative Studies. A finalist for the London Independent Story Prize, she’s authored four chapbooks including Eat Cake for Breakfast (Dancing Girl Press, 2021), Big Apple Rain (The Writer’s Den, 2018), My Daughter Wears Her Evil Eye to School (The Writer’s Den, 2015) and Chamber Music 21 Villanelles (Finishing Line Press, 2013). Find her on X @wileymoz.
Whether in a “celery-colored waiting room” undressing chocolates or a bookstore where “it’s raining semi-colons,” Dear Pancreas is a gorgeous buffet of raw, plump moments. From anxiety to grief to period blood that leaks, Lisa Wiley does not hold back from the truth of being a woman who writes unabashedly about how fragile the body can be and how we long for our loved ones—and ourselves—to survive. —Sara Ries Dziekonski, author of Today’s Specials and co-editor at Poetry Midwives
In a world that grows increasingly loud, Wiley shuts out the noise allowing these exquisitely crafted poems to breathe. Skillfully bridging light and dark, Dear Pancreas puts the DNA of life under a microscope with all its humor, joys, and toxins. In equal measure, close family, Forever stamps, fastnachts, and fireflies share pages alongside cancer, grief, and cold infusions. In these extraordinary stirring verses, love is palpable, and “Heaven is a Luau…” of pure endurance. ~Theresa Wyatt, author of The Beautiful Transport & Hurled Into Gettysburg
Ode to My Jogging Bra
You lift me up when I need it most—
gliding into your sleek, smooth embrace,
my breasts are two buoyant water balloons
netted into place, neatly compressed.
They never bounce, jiggle or distract
with your racerback hugging them
perfectly in position.
This streamlined bodywork must be
a product of German engineering,
for I am Peter Pan
in a middle schooler’s frame
prepared to burst out of Wendy’s window
and fly high above the twinkling city.
I can concentrate on form
without horns beeping.
No chaffing from this microfiber
as if I’m running naked—
no curves, no hooks
restricting my flight.
A four miler turns into eight.
Cleavage doesn’t hold me back—
my chest comfortably bound
by this magic elastic paneling
covered in pixy dust
until I am ready to land.
Binging Beverly Hills, 90210
the Summer Shannen Doherty Dies
Strong-willed Brenda has it all—
heart-shaped face, porcelain skin, brunette bangs,
fierce green eyes commanding the camera. I pause
on episode 18 “It’s Just a Test” where Kelly leads
breast self-exams after school. Svelte Brenda finds a lump,
needs a biopsy. Troubling over her family history,
she misses her Saturday SAT’s. Aunt Sheila died at 35.
Her boyfriend Dylan (dead now too)
brings a bright bouquet to the hospital. I forgot about
all the severe sideburns. No cell phones, the teenagers
read each other’s faces. Her anxious twin Brandon skips
his SAT’s too. Somehow, the brazen actress couldn’t stay
ahead of it. I keep up with routine checks, wonder if
I’ll find my own timebomb ticking.
Dear Pancreas,
Don’t betray me, love,
like you did both my parents
destroying their shiny happy worlds.
Curious creature,
a pear tilted sideways—
others see a tadpole
tucked into the center core.
Innocent thing,
no one notices you until
sudden yellow of jaundice
pollinated eyes and skin signal
malicious cells multiplying
like silent wildfire spreading
to satellite locations
when it’s too late for even
the finest firefighters
to douse them out.
Let’s keep our arrangement secret—
stable, reliable, unassuming
doing whatever it is you do
tending to digestion
and sugar management
maintaining a delicate ecosystem.
I’ll respect you always,
never cheat on you with nights
bloated with the binge of drink
or chain smoke
unless you fuck with me.
But you’ve already
ravaged my family history,
so I will savor every mystery
of this fleeting body
on this fragile planet—
delirious, before we part.
Why My Mother Won’t Attend My Poetry Reading
She declines every invitation,
claims it’s too quiet, like church.
Someone might hear her cough or swallow.
What if her cell phone pierced the air?
She wonders why I wasn’t clever enough
to equate her love to a lanyard.
She sent me to a fine college after all.
Didn’t I learn how to write beautiful metaphors?
She says she’s afraid someone might allude to sex,
body parts better left to the imagination.
She doesn’t want to be privy to what occurs
between other people’s wrinkled sheets.
She muses someone in a beret might try to romance her,
compare her eyes to fireflies, ask for her phone number,
someone who wouldn’t mind if she brought
my father along for a hot dog.
She cautions she would only make me nervous,
and she doesn’t have enough black in her closet to wear.
Last time she checked, there is a 10 percent chance of rain.
Besides, she knows Billy Collins won’t show.
