Sam Alexandra Rose

Writer, researcher, music lover, cancer survivor with CMMRD ("double" Lynch syndrome)

Page 15 of 45

2017 in review, sort of

Home alone, feeling reflective or otherwise emotionally riled for no real reason, and in possession of a lot of Jack Daniels. Four bottles, in fact. Obviously I’m only going to have like two glasses; it’s just interesting that I have so much in the house at the moment. Good to know it’s there, I guess – though I will have to pick a different alcohol when I eventually go to the supermarket to do my “will I still get ID’d now that I’m thirty?” test.

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I visit my uncle

I visit my uncle
whose nose has been partly cut away
to remove some of the skin cancer,
who can only eat through a feeding
tube, who has lost all his weight,
who has developed an infection
and a bloodied, sore face, whose
wife feeds him and gives him his
morphine and antibiotics, who has
blood in his pee when he goes once
per day, whose organs are shutting
down, who, when he asks if it’s
curtains for him, hears the answer
yes. And I leave to go back to my
upgraded hotel room and I eat pizza
and drink Southern Comfort and
the next day I go home and kiss my
boyfriend and go to work and my
aunt and uncle will carry on for
the next two weeks or maybe more
but that will be all, just a few more
weeks of enjoying this world in that
hell hole of a body and we all watch and
listen and know that we will each follow,
somehow, someday, and we’re all
already on our way.

to be with me

I had a dream you were with me.
we were holding hands
and people were saying that’s not what friends do
but they were wrong.
because an unnamed personal disaster
had befallen me
and I just needed someone who knew that
to be present enough to touch my skin
to hold my hand like it’s a thought that needs soothing
to ward off all others who wouldn’t understand
to be with me.

tubes in places they shouldn’t be

tubes in places they shouldn’t be
there have been floods here
burst pipes, now there’s a
clear plastic tube coming out of the plughole
sticking out of the sink
trailing out of the door
droplets floating down the tubes
drips
drips
drips from the ceiling

tubes in places they shouldn’t be
there has been blood here
tubes in veins
blood transfusions
morphine drip, anti-sickness
droplets floating down the tubes
drip
drip
drip of memories
in places where they shouldn’t be

room

there is room for poetry now

while I am wondering

whether I will die

or if I just won’t be able

to create new life.

While I’m wondering

why people choose such

vague words

while keeping my own

words only as

specific as I can

handle.

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