|Apr/May 2019 Poetry Special Feature
Excerpted imagery from photography by Kris Saknussemm
For a year I took Temodar,
five days a month, just before bed.
The decaled capsule shook
like a rain stick. Down the dark
well of my stomach, it would
dissolve, releasing prayer
beads. I imagined the little time
capsule opening like a Christmas
present in my bloodstream.
Imagined what little time
I had left, leaving. I took Zofran,
the anti-nausea, knowing
I would never feel well again.