The Cure

A poem about life and sickness

Jump ahead to D-day. Morning comes in heavy tread — the whine of mechanicals eats the air, glass reflecting lines and shadows. Underneath, it’s overtaken the last crevice inside my body, the whine of breath, of breathing.

Listen, you say. There is no answer.

The tick of feet across the floor, a final notification, motion in the inner room, dark drip of liquid. How old am I, at the center? On your knees, pretending — a row of heads, disjointed, bobbing in time to the beat, the next step to swallow.

Summer, the breeze floats like ashes. I see bodies undulating over sand, water, laughter in the background — too young to have these concerns.

Outside the window, the dull knife of clouds threatens flames, paints the breast pink like cancer flags.

I am more than the mouth of bitter noise, watching the distance to here from there the ridge of paper ripping when I stand.

I look at polka dots tongue depressors the cracked peach counter. Underfoot, the brown shit carpet, low numbers knocking together: the last door.

A pale face turns down, pages flare under fluorescent lights — why won’t you tell me what is so fucking important there?

Don’t pretend to a body, the tick-tock of a bare room, rush of heat fading from a cold heartbeat — Put down my blood, my brain, everything inside boxes, check off the charts. The paper clock calls out when I ask what it means.

Push of needle through bone, last thread of strands across your hand, the end pulling me apart —

Listen, you say. There is no answer.