Tami Wisniewski wrote this article.
swoosh. swoosh. swoosh.
Racing to the heart, the brain,
the empty space.
All she thinks about is death.
And whether or not it will spread to the brain, liver, stomach, lung.
And I am invaded
by the unknown
that I am supposed to carry
through her body
to relieve the overgrowth.
racing racing – so fast.
Because all she can think about is death. Death.
Not the empty space.
Not how tired I am making her feel,
or sick, or alone, unwanted,
I want to burst through
the folds of skin
because all she thinks about is death.
Unwoman. . .
Whether or not she will be a survivor
“dedicated to the memory of. . .”