He’s too afraid to name the storm clouds
building up behind her eyes: it’s another migraine, it’s not,
it’s something worse, and they won’t give it a name,
this feeling, even with the ease
that classifying dangerous things sometimes brings.
Even with a name, it’s still cancer rotting her out,
even with a name, it’s hard to talk about
like an unwanted pregnancy, like an impending abortion,
like a dog you have to get rid of. If only they could talk about it,
if only we could talk about it, if, if. If.
Your hand brushes the spot in my breast
where the lump can’t be removed, the knot
that wells up bigger than our future, bigger than the two of us
could ever be together. In your sleep, you whimper
as your wrap your palm around my poisonous breast, pull me close;
this is as close as we will ever be
from this point on.
Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in The NoSleep podcast, Talking River, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and the Indiana Writers Center.