The way my fingers fit
beginning at the sternum,
moving along
the rib bones,
each time I see
the Doctor,
each time I leave her office
it seems
easier
to say
“I am dying.”
Photograph by Jeff Spirer
I asked again
to grab reality by the tail,
“what if I stop taking
all this medicine,
what if I
stop
doing
all this stuff
that makes me hurt,
that makes me
always
uncomfortable?”
she says she’s not sure
but
the studies show
a life expectancy of
six months
without treatment,
I reach
for
the bones in my back
when I scratch them
when I ask
feel like seashells
like an ancient trigger
to
let the water
pour out my eyes,
to
let myself hear it:
“I am dying.”
17 December 2014
–Sean Flaherty, November 15, 1966–January 4, 2015
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