Women’s Cancer Center

by Shannon Sankey

The Autoimmune Clinic
is overbooked today,
so there is a chair for me
in the Women’s
Cancer Center.

In the waiting room,
I feel every curl
on my head.

Someone weighs me,
tags me, hooks me up.

Someone brings me coffee.

I’ve forgotten good socks.

My bag of fluid hangs
clear, not fuchsia.

I hear Fight from somewhere
like a strange bird.

But for me survival
is inevitable.

I move the data of self
onto an external cloud
of light particles.
I carry it, little purse
of memory, swinging.

There is no rest.

There is nowhere
to set myself down.

Shannon Sankey holds an MFA from Chatham University. She is working on a collection of poetry about the female body of autoimmune disease.

 

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