megan wintrow

Cancer

No.
I don't want to talk.
I have a plan
to hunker down
and let the storm just blow me by.
If I cry,
it's real,
it really happened
and damn these tears.
Damn these years
of memories
of cookies and peaches
and dancing Ponchos.
Of buttons and roadtrips
and Cherry 7Up.
Of "Special Girls"
and Cracker Barrels,
all so bright
and full of joy
before the shadow came.
Before the spot on your lung
became what it had no right to be.
A hungry threat inside you
waiting to feed on us all.
And I refuse to think of how
you fought for a life you knew
you were losing.
Of how the several warnings
didn't mitigate your passing.
Stupid roses.
Stupid preacher.
Stupid tears.
Now your cancer
feeds on us.