CYNTHIA HUNTINGTON
Sometimes a headache is just a headache;
other times it might be brain cancer.
As the mobster’s mother said, “You die
in your own arms.” You believe in life
without purpose, you try to live by will and
manic reason, you end up talking to your horse,
like Nietzsche. Nietzsche is dead.
The horse died also, after great suffering.
It was an inflammation of the brain, a mental
combustion, fever of hope run riot.
I sensed a great disturbance in the house.
I felt cancer in my brain. It was an earwig
that bored into my skull and whispered
to my frontal lobes my loving husband
had been screwing everything that moved.
One in particular I suspect
was not even moving. The clock is ticking.
Pay attention; it might be a bomb.
Sometimes a pressure in your chest
will wake you in the middle of the night,
squeezing your lungs, a fire climbing
up your throat. You sit up, choking for breath.
It might be a bad dream, or something you ate.
Another time, it’s a heart attack.