April 13, 2021

the delicate arrangement of unavoidable sorrow

At the clinic, the path to the nurse with the syringe in her hand was festooned with signs.
It took no time to get through the answers - “No,” “No,” “No,” “No,” “No” - before
the clipboard came down and I was pointed toward table number 6. It was, dare I say,
almost cheerful, the processions of new arrivals, the summer-hued short-sleeve shirts 
rolled to the tip of bare shoulders, volunteers on circuitous rounds in the waiting area, 
spray bottles clipped to their waists. It was only later, midnight, waking to the cry 
of my body as it wrestled with the angel serum inside it, that I peered at the edge of what
and who had been sacrificed, and what remainders the disease would scavenge. 
In the morning, I drifted between rooms, sipping from my water glass, nested in a limbo
of relief and sadness, my eyes scanning a horizon that kept slipping in and out of view.