I am searching for the language to describe the feeling of a future being gone.
The ways in which cancer robs words, robs next week, next month, next year. Robs plan-making, robs a body of potentials.
This is not the time to be positive.
Allow for grief, allow for anger.
Is it thievery? Theft? Or slicing? A person could imagine meat now. A dog running into an old-time butchery, stealing the prize steak. The butcher himself holding the meat cleaver high, white apron bloody, yelling, chasing the dog into the alleyway. Future lost profit.
Not a rug swept away. An entire floor.
Birds here for the season.
The abrupt “off” of a heat-relieving fan.
In bed, all imaginings ending with “no.” Remaining awake.
When listening to clocks, counting.
Music in the entryway and briefly the scent of perfume—
hollered greetings hill to hill,
What strangling might mean if a throat was held by air.
Remaining awake to think of it
*Link to the Emily Dickinson poem from which this title is taken.