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In The Days After The Diagnosis

By C. L. Liedekev

She can’t sew
the thin threads in her doll’s
dress. She can paint the face,
the window open as
a constant reminder, air inside,
air outside. Her immune
system a broken wheel, a poisoned
limb, internal assassin - and
I never know if the contract is open.
Her life free of the needle’s new
sword life. One prick, and as the tale
goes she for longer than a thousand
years, as I imagine the blood
pooling over the plastic hair. The
bright red a clash against the
false hair of the toy’s. So I sew
as crooked as I can and wipe down
her desk, her walls, kill the outside
as she teeters in her internal Holocaust.
The death of each cell, each moment
an act of misery and love. As all
I can do, is keep seeing the edge
of the dress, it’s yellow form as bright
as her face in an acceptance
I will never understand.

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