Upon Not Yet Being Diagnosed
Maybe I’d say things like, “I have it. It doesn’t have me!”
Maybe I’d make inappropriate jokes about it on Facebook.
Maybe there’d be a 5K, and I’d get a T-shirt.
Or maybe I’d meditate—I’ve heard people do that.
Maybe I’d write more poems,
start cursing at old people,
hop a Greyhound to Taos to join an artist colony.
Maybe I’d start eating sugar wafers for breakfast,
because why the hell not?
Maybe I’d watch my diet or join a support group
and realize how good I have it.
Maybe I’d find God.
Maybe I’d finish Anna Karenina,
start buying premium gasoline,
learn how to grow roses for cryin’ out loud,
tilt at windmills,
pore over holistic healing books
and find some mixture that worked for the Indians.
Maybe I’d throw a glass at the wall
just so the shatter
would ring in my ears.
Maybe I’d walk the street in the middle of February
at 3 a.m. without shoes
to let the snow bite at my feet
and whiteout my mind.
Maybe I’d curl into the small of your back
and sob until I couldn’t breathe
and then you would turn
and pull me in until I exhaled it for the universe to sort out.
Because otherwise it would suffocate the space
I need to manage the maybes.
about the author
Heather Martin is the editorial director for Innovative InterChange, an organizational development consulting company. In her spare time, she noodles around making poems, Scrabble tile necklace pendants, and blank books bound by old album covers.