Cold silence overtook his body before
the central line went in; before the port
in his neck, a permanent pothole that
jarred his sleep, his turnings left or right.
Suddenly the wind begins to howl, a
frigid wind that feels like burning. As
mists and flurries accompany blizzards,
so plastic gowns, gloves and masks
accompany the nurse bringing that bag
of miracles, a bag so caustic she must
protect herself from the coming onslaught.
Swirls of snowflakes driven on a west wind
sweep across the city, obscure skyscraperss,
pummel persons huddled on the street.
L-cytarabine swirls through his bloodstream,
drip, dripping its way into every crack an d
crevass, coats every windowsill, every cell.
Just as ice buildson each cold street where
flakes accumulate,wherever cells attempt to
replicate dead cells pile up, clog the kidneys,
clog the liver, sores dot the mouth,ankles swell,
stomach retches. Traffic snarles, slows to a stop,
snow falling on good and bad alike. Confusion
reigns, but the whiteout is spectacular.
first published in The Rockford Review
©2019 Bonnie Manion