|Jul/Aug 2017 Poetry Special Feature|
A gallery of cancer patients are on display:
The Young Girl Waiting Patiently.
The Lonely Man Who Never Quit Smoking.
The Worried Mother Seated with Son.
And now I am one of them.
I labeled them and now they can label me.
Is this how Dorian Gray felt peeking at his portrait?
What happens if I rip my own to ribbons?
They take a marker to my canvas where the radiation
begins the uniform acceleration of my free fall.
I can’t move during treatment,
even though in my head
flying frenzied sirens are singing to my fears.
I must be like Ulysses tied to the post of my own ship.