Diagnosis Poem by Francie Lynch

I can rise to any daily challenge,
Except the diagnosis;
Then the days of respite
Are scripted,
The scales are tipped
To measure meaning.

Yesterday I felt the pressure
Of my father's hand
While I wed the garden;
Never thinking I'd long
For those days.

Memories fade cool.
First, I wonder,
Then, I ponder,
Now I worry.

I've read
The Death of Ivan Ilych,
I know It.

I'll give traitors
A sneering reprieve,
Dismiss,
Turn my back,
Breathe between the particles
Of a middle-class life,
Then languish
Between your clean eyes.
Will you miss Christmas
This year?
Am I asking too soon
About fewer rooms?