
The Woman in the Moon Face
A pericarditis poem
Palpitations reverberate her ribs Tremble. Thump. Squeeze. Tremble. Squeeze. Staccato rhythms ricochet to her skull Throbbing. Pulsating. She awakens
Brain awash in a celestial haze she levitates with caution drifting to the vanity mirror “Good Morning,” she sighs to the Woman in the Moon Face
Half a year since the voyage began Launched into orbit by an autoimmune flare She tried to abort the mission but there is no dousing the combustion of chronic illness
Disease incarcerates her heart Unrelenting gravity constricts her core Shallow breaths through concrete Each gasp measured to preserve oxygen
Countenance circumnavigated by treatment Her once lean expression now eclipsed Medications store plump reserves of blubber encapsulating like a spacesuit
The image on her home screen taunts A brighter, joyful time Two years earlier thin, carefree, euphoric flanked by her sons beneath the Grecian sun
Averse to comprehend this alien reflection Reluctant to accept the morphed figure as her own The morning’s trek has made her weary
She retreats to her bed chamber and dreams of normalcy






