I am spending more time

with my prognosis:


this death that seems slow

but won’t at the end


instead of putting on a sweater

and waiting in the office

for the name of it


I am lying in the sun

and letting rain touch me


the diagnosis sparks

such gossip

as if it were rare


did you know she is dying?

the telephones shrill

or thumbs sketch out conjecture


as if it were unheard of

and not inevitable

as if the support group

is exclusive


keeping you out



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