ACUTE PROMYELOCYTIC LEUKEMIA
Never yet so firmly rooted in the ground as when I threatened
to come loose, my dreams reduced to a desire for
remission. Clinging to prognoses, I sank into black holes,
expecting heavenly choirs. I rehearsed a resurrection
and learnt to nip doubt in the bud.
A series of coincidences saved my life. What if
I’d gone to sleep that evening, what if that night
I’d put my head down much too hard, what if ATRA-pills
had not yet been discovered? I thought:
hell is as brightly orange as the liquid in this bag, it burns
unrestrained in my veins. But tears must be forced back
as there are people coming to admire
an undaunted girl. “How are you?” “I’m well.
I haven’t bled to death yet.” I thought
this frightened falling shouldn’t be experienced alone, a single
finger-snap and I am gone, the time determined by coincidence.
This senseless tumbling shouldn’t be experienced.
Even if it’s just a parabola, even if I never drop too far,
the hole is black and I’m so frightened, so miserably ill.