I Get By

It has occurred to me that I get by

because

I am the opposite of resilient

resilience to me just means

being a glutton for punishment

a punching bag that continues to swing back for more

on a rope tethered to the spot

whereas I, once hit, have remained lying low

in the brace position

head between knees

arms and fingers crossed

ready for the inevitable impact

Public Transport

Our thighs touch

in a moment of unrequested contact

that could last, I estimate, approximately 42 minutes

I consider not moving my body at all

because

why should I?

I was here first

but I can’t bear to leave our legs pressing together any longer

so I wiggle closer to the window

creating much needed space

between

myself and a middle-aged man

who emits a mixture of middle-management and stale deodorant

and entitlement

specifically

to a section of my seat

that I paid $5:13 for

(which, as an aside,  seems equal parts exorbitant and weirdly antiquated in an age of decimal currency)

“excuse me” I say

as I get up

because my stop approaches

he makes no effort to move

he still encroaches

so I take great delight

in pushing past

at last

doors open

I’m out

Justice

Innocence has a price

$1,271.75 to be precise

and that’s just one of the many letters that came

demanding prompt payment

but then guilt would have taken its time

to ask for the account to be paid out in full

and had a higher cost

so it must be viewed

that a few thousand

is no great loss

in the scheme of things

and somehow I have to make sure I get value for money

it took its pound of flesh

(or a little less

just enough for a petri dish)

so I think I’ve earned

a lesson learned

carpe diem

go out and seize ‘em

easier said than done

for all the battles won

there’ll be losses mounting up

it’s for them,

the guilty ones,

I push on
it's not fair
and it's not just
that some do not
when others must
but we have no say
wishes hold no sway
over what will be

and when the bank account balance has recovered

and the bruise from the cannula has receded

and the incision high on the back of the thigh has healed

and it's all just an anecdote 

I hope I won't forget
I hope the scars remain in my memory to remind me
to never live in so much fear again

There’s a corner of my bed

that I had previously never rested my head

or sat on

but for two weeks

it was there I went to draw strength

it has the best view out the bedroom window

so I would go
and practice hearing the words

and practice answering the phone

so when the call came

I could remain calm

and be ready to follow instructions

do whatever I had to do

I could look straight out to

the world from this corner of my bed

and when they said it was innocent

I tried to let myself see

I was allowed back out there

free

I Say To Myself

They don’t allow guests in this waiting room

“Patients Only” it says on the door

under “Nuclear Diagnostics”

I know that whoever else joins me in this place

will have their own battle waging

but I’m alone

I try to picture the outside world

with people going about their normal business

not about to be injected with radiation

and strangely I harbor no resentment

“This is my life now" I say to myself

I force myself to look around

at the equipment and monitors

and various other overwhelming paraphernalia

“This is my life now” I say to myself

“Get used to it”

and like many times before

when my nerves send my body shaking

I say to myself

“Get busy living, or get busy dying”

and as I’m lying on the hard table and I’m slid into the tunnel

I close my eyes and say to myself

“how could this be happening?”

when it’s over he meets me in the other waiting room

where guests are allowed

“Lift or stairs?” he asks

I motion towards the stairs

and once in the stairwell

hoping no one will hear

I take his hand

and scream

But Aren’t We All

I don’t want to be anymore

the topic of hushed conversations

and concerned text messages

“any news?”

“what’s the latest?”

“has she spoken to the doctor?’

an abnormality, they said

atypical, they said

 

but aren’t we all.

Fine

He says, like many times before
“you’ll be fine”
I tell him I’ll hold him to that
he says I’m a sweet kid
that dad loves me and that he likes me too
and I think I’ll be fine
and if I’m not …
I’ll run screaming from that bridge when I come to it

Still Practising

I wonder if you’re still practising
if you still spend your time telling people
“I don’t think you’ll see your next birthday”
I saw you once, or maybe twice, and you seemed well past middle-aged
I wonder if you’re still practising finding the right words
juggling clinical detachment with quiet sympathy
or did you master that skill many years ago
I wonder if you’re still practising being the one who has to say out loud
what no one else even dares to whisper
I wonder if you’re still practising fighting a losing battle on a daily basis
I wonder if you’re still practising forgetting the faces
of those who just never made another appointment
I like to imagine you retired and remembering
the ones you helped to win

Every Conversation

I haven’t heard your voice in so many years

and I can’t remember how it sounds

the only place it’s recorded is on a wedding video
from long ago
a tape that technology has rendered obsolete

footage that I can't see
even if I wanted to

which I don’t

I can smell your perfume

I can look at photos

and remain composed
they're scents and scenes
for my senses

but when I try to unearth your voice

it’s like it’s been erased from my memory

as if every conversation we ever had

is now a silent movie
I suppose it's somewhere buried deep
and I have truly tried to dig

but I know if I could hear you speak

it would all come back

and

I

would

crack