Paled by prognosis, fear trails me everywhere
making the inside of the ice cream store glisten
with a cold wet sorrow. We stand assembled
in a knot, passing tastes of Banana Daiquiri
on the tiny pink chalice of a plastic spoon.
Beneath my ribs — a private coiled quickening,
like the kicking during pregnancy. The smell of the unmiraculous
is everywhere as we seat ourselves in wrought-iron
sweetheart chairs. Talk and silence gather over a circle
of white cups. Revelation. The upward spiral
of white-cell counts. We cannot divest ourselves
of its necessary covenant between us. While sunlight
glances off conversation, caught in the cathedral-hazed
arches of the parlor’s mirrors, the slick marble walls.
Click here to read Ginnie Goulet Gavrin on the origin of the poem.
Image: photo by Michel Stockman on Unsplash, licensed under CC 2.0.
- Spiral: A Week After the Bone Scan - August 15, 2023