Abecedarian Becomes Cancer Diagnosis | Anna Lisa Stork
Another hospital trip. You are
bleeding again. It’s almost
cold enough to see my
death. I press my cheek to the window.
Every day is a test, and I am always
failing to make amends.
God means prayer,
half-assed prayer.
I learn the lines,
jester the psalms to
keep you alive,
living for the time being.
Mom means daughter.
No. I don’t want to meet the
oncologist who tells me it’s
pancreatic cancer. I ask
questions that have no answer – all
rust and ache.
Sorry, so many apologies and yet
the truth is still
unbearable. Sorry pokes into another
vein. Sorry don’t know
where you bleed from.
Xerox of a xerox. A final
yuletide in the hospital. We plant
zinnias after the last frost.
About the Author:
Anna Lisa is currently pursuing a BFA in creative writing at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. Her work is forthcoming or has appeared in Sink Hollow Literary Magazine, Prairie Margins, and Glass Mountain Magazine. Her writing explores grief through the lens of the Midwestern landscape.