I sit in silhouette, along a river, spent by lapping waves, the color of soder. Like hot liquid tin, flowing through. The veins of a decrepit riverbank, lifeblood to this garden of bones and crumbled leaves. Autumn is colliding, with the cold thrust of winter.
People are flowing past me on the trail, preoccupied with last night's game... of negotiating dreams, shimmers of sleep, railing... against the rules of time.
A woman wails past me, alone. Sobbing… into soft, abandoned leaves, they absorb and blur her footsteps, like wet multi-colored tissue paper. I wonder what her news is. Has she the same fate as mine?
I, have breast cancer.
small c. For I… am trying, to stay in ctrl.
I tell myself, in mantra... "Bless my soul, please make me whole."
I... am Newly minted. Newly diagnosed. Newly raw.
I still haven't cried. Crying would make this real.
No tears, from the poet who can glide on a wave of liquid escape. I can go dark deeper, than you could dare imagine. Downed, in fathoms of emotion. My winter days, can be weighted as coal-black snowflakes. Soot and noir.
I, have cancer. small c.
Sat in the hand, of a rare, pure, warm November day, 74 degrees of separation, from a dreaded… looming winter. The breeze, blowing away my fears and future visions… of nausea. nakedness. baldness. weakness. fatigue.
I sit and watch the speckles of a firestar sun dance against my eyes, as to my shock… a young deer swims up alongside me. Paddling calmly upstream, against the forest's veins. She