By Donna Pucciani
Hunt the vein,
inject the dye.
Lie back
and think of England.
We laughed before
you got trundled
through the plastic tube
with clangs and bangs
and flashing lights.
Amusement park rides
are like this, and as a child,
I was the one who went on
again and again, screaming,
hands in the air. Now,
once is enough to tell us
if your body, my love,
is riddled with cancer.
I think we knew already.
But as the saying goes,
life’s a roller coaster,
like the one in Palisades Park
that I watched from Joe’s
Elbow Room, twirling spaghetti
and begging my parents
for another ride after supper.
The MRI machine has spoken,
and like the Oracle at Delphi,
gives disastrous and mysterious
news, which I take on faith
but hope to god is wrong.
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, Italian Americana, Gradiva, ParisLiUp, Acumen and other journals. Her latest book of poetry is Edges.