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Rooftops
You are glad for winter.
The sight of snow on
rooftops cools you,
comforts, signals the
passage of time. Your
brain tumor will be
cured by Christmas.
It will be your present.
Six weeks of radiation,
the smallest dose, a
microcurie. Yet, you
awaken nights and feel
that heat exit through
your ears. Sunburnt
on your temples, you
lament the loss of hair.
Counting chimneys, you
hang onto hope as the
heat exits you naturally
like languid smoke rising
as if this was meant to be.
I count things too: Three
hundred stitches, thirty staples,
the quickness of your wit, the
strength of your hugs. This
winter, let there be lots of snow
to extinguish sick heat, to
cool, to calm, to comfort you.
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