by Rhea Tregebov
for NR
It’s a speck lays me low, some bit of thing
my body refuses – or that refuses
my body – puts me on intimate terms
with the bathroom floor, its shiny tiles my
only horizon. There is nothing to
appease it; reduced to intake, output,
at least I’m near what I need. I have thought,
now and again, my life soured, but I
can’t remember wanting this much to not
be in my body, to shuck flesh. Except
I know it will end and soon enough. For
me, if not for you, friend, what chemo
is doing to yours, making you thin and
twist. No help in wishing you better.
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 2