no one tells you

what it’s like.

they don’t preface the

announcement of a lifetime–

a startlingly numbered lifetime–

one that is surprisingly short–

they just tell you.

no one was there when

she broke the news and my heart

the iridescent lights

were flickering softly,

almost comforting

but not quite:

there was an eeriness to them, too

and now I understand.

she sent me on my way

practically pushing me out

into the chill of October’s afternoon

at least the clouds were crying for me

when I couldn’t

they covered me in tears,

fake tears, faux melancholy,

but real desolation.

they don’t tell you what

will happen.

they make a plan

without you.

it’s in their hands.

but what am I supposed to do?

the cluster of rebellious cells

is in my body,

on my blood cells,

worming their way through

my capillaries and arteries and veins

the astonishingly large network

that is now filled with carcinogens.

yet, I am powerless.

I can move my feet,

one at a time,

down the sidewalk,

shattering puddles of water

as more dribbles onto me.

I can wave to the Grinnell’s,

smiling and exchanging

forced pleasantries

while they leave for an

enjoyable day deficient of

unsolicited surprises.

I can stroke the back of

my black-and-white puppy, but

I can’t even

oh God–

I can’t even

save my dog

from the inevitable loss

of me

from his life.

I cannot do anything.

I can be lonely.

I can travel the world,

alone.

I can try treatment

in a one-woman medical trial;

alone.

what

God–

tell me,

what am I

supposed to do?

I am–

I’m praying now,

because I’m alone

and you don’t owe me anything

but I’m grieving–

is this bargaining?

this is healthy:

don’t discourage it.

but you

you don’t owe me anything

except do you think maybe

you could help me?
to be safe

and maybe

possibly

get a little healthier

and rid some of these stupid cells

from my body?

I mean,

what else can I do?

what

am I

supposed

to do?