By Lillibit Ray
A routine appointment on a regular day.
The sun blaring hot outside,
Asphalt fuming, plants gone limp and gray.
I remember thinking hell’s flaring up again.
Why today?
Inside the exam room
doctor enters the room after a wait,
and I’m told solemnly
they’ve found a nodule in my breast.
Not knowing what that is
I say, “okay.”
How bad could it be?
“Cancer,” the doctor says,
“is how bad it can be.”
I imagine black cells, green cells
collecting in a mosh pit of packed growth
trampling and crushing the innocent cells
keeping me alive.
How do I engage this unwelcome visitor?
What need I do to survive?
Persistent, malignant masses
hardened by hubris,
sized as peas or walnuts
offering little comfort
when talking of tumors.
Just cut it out.
Remove the killer waste
multiplying at death’s speed,
accelerating in unnecessary haste.
Rip out a lymph network
supplying safe passage
to unwanted posers.
Threatening one’s safety.
Feeling so healthy,
I feel conflicted by the news.
Bad juju indeed
devastates my mellow moxie.
Immortality suddenly a pipe dream.
I can’t be dying inside.
Ask the doctor, “are you sure this is right?”
and she answers, “the tests don’t lie.”
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