Every Time I Think I'm Over It

Every time I think I'm over it
the fear bites me in the ass.
I've grown accustomed to the uncertainty
like a child, once terrified of her own shadow
now walks without so much as
a glance towards the pavement.

But the simplest things others take for granted--
the things that bring other people joy--
like
weighing myself on a scale
or
massaging a crick in my neck
can bring my life to a standstill
while I breathe in and out
and mentally run a scan of my body.
Is that weight loss because I've been working out?
Or is the cancer back?
Is that just a knot of tension?
Or is the cancer back?
Am I tired because I went to work today?
Or is the cancer back?
Is it harder to breathe because I took a rest day from running?
Or is the cancer back?

Being Poor and Sick in America

Being poor and sick in America
makes you intimately familiar with humiliation
and degradation
and frustration
and dehumanization.
You learn that your eyes, your ears,
your teeth, your heart, your lungs,
your hands, your feet, your knees,
your mind
are less valuable--
that somehow a simple question of
"Is that Medicaid?"
can make you feel less than a centimeter tall--
make you curl inside yourself in shame
like someone's focused a spotlight on your poverty
like you're some street urchin who accidentally fell through the roof
of the Golden Globes, and the clean shirt you're wearing
suddenly feels yellow'd with age,
and your naked face feels pocked and scarred
next to the Chanel and Givenchy,
except it's not style and fashion you're trying to compete for
but survival.