Bed ridden after the chemo
What is it I asked but he would not let on
She laid there gray and sullen
Words like hair, new hats, comfort
Swirled around in whispers of the day room
The hospital became a home for her
She sits on a chair made of red velvet
Words like hours, veins, relax
Swirled around in whispers of the chemo room
The house is now empty
But full of people who used to know her thoughts
Words like loved, too late, now miss
Swirled around the blackened party
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Multiple Sclerosis
by Cynthia Huntington
For
ten years I would not say the name.
I
said: episode. Said: setback, incident,
exacerbation—anything
but be specific
in
the way this is specific, not a theory
or
description, but a diagnosis.
I
said: muscle, weakness, numbness, fatigue.
I
said vertigo, neuritis, lesion, spasm.
Remission.
Progression. Recurrence. Deficit.
But
the name, the ugly sound of it, I refused.
There
are two words. The last one means: scarring.
It
means what grows hard, and cannot be repaired.
The
first one means: repeating, or myriad,
consisting
of many parts, increasing in number,
happening
over and over, without end
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