Thursday, April 12, 2007


My God, she's scared.

It wasn't so bad when they found the lump, though her husbands suddenly probing fingers and his shuttered white face will haunt her.

But now this period. That won't stop.
She's always been a four-day girl. And now it's day eleven, with no end in sight.

She's tired of stained panties and putting on a good face and assuring everyone she's fine, damnit,
when all she wants to do is cry.

What if this is it?
What if this is all there is?

What if they don't remember?

1 comment:

Dawn said...

This is a great poem! I didn't even realize you had this other've been holding out on us huh? Nice writing!