I pop half a Xanax before my appointment,
but it doesn't really help. I am not a drug person
and my oncologist wears bright orange Nikes
as he makes his rounds, smiles and waves
at me in my corner chair next to the exit
where I can be invisible, yet scope the room
while clear chemicals enter my veins through tangled tubes
and they call this drip an infusion and the rules
post-chemo are no kissing or exchanging bodily fluids
for three days and to launder all linens and clothes in hot water.
I pop half a Xanax before my appointments
so I can be invisible, close my eyes and disappear.
My one-positive-affirmation-a-day calendar
recently read: �I can do hard things,�
to which I replied, �fuck you.� I don't want to do any more
hard things. I want peace and ease and to eat dessert after every meal.
Self Portrait as Patient by Susan Vespoli | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
