What to Expect

The ache waned, yet
there should be something to show
for the remains,

drawn out into plastic tubes and rolled
on loose metal down linoleum for more testing
to add to the bill before the incinerator.

The word “lucky” was never used,
but so many turned and said
“it was good, you…”

After all, the procedures
were only minimally invasive,
leaving a perfectly empty space.

I should have noted the warning signs:
visions of lost women beaming, cradling,
clinking glasses without wine.

If it wasn’t me that sent her,
then who cast her down
that fatal path?

Warm blood broke out, rushing
inside me as I fell
flooding to free consciousness.

I wasn’t there for the end,
but they flashed
pictures as I squinted through the numbness.

I was never offered the images
of that siren red tube clinging to life
or vast black orb suspended in static.

Leaves of Absence

For three years
the aloe lived
through shutdowns
and leaves
+++of absence on a dimly lit sill.

 

It went unnoticed by the skeletal staff
filing viral loads in the office above
the majestic cherry blossom by Penn Station.
++Without water, sprigs lost their color.

Returning to my desk months after the diagnosis,
I didn’t think I could save it,
but I poured a cup around the small pot,
and it became again          (miraculously)
robust and resolute.

Too much tending
can be more deadly than being forgotten.

We plan for drinks and pizza
the Friday before the next round of chemo.

The surgeon readies the blade
as I close my eyes into fluorescent screaming
++in diamonds past the darkness.
If nothing else, that plant was a survivor,
fleshy limbs outstretched to nothing,
++no comfort but dried dirt.

In spring I strain to see
if the forsythia will bud after the drought
and loss of last summer.
It answers with yellow flowers that burst too early
from bare branches before the mid-March freeze.
Maybe it’s telling me not to worry
about the others scattered in the shade
despite their dead limbs
++sawed back.

Our night ends abruptly
when the last of Nana’s set
shatters over our feet,
++bitter rubies sticking to our soles.

We try to laugh it off,
reminding each other
not to invest too much
in what’s well known to be
easily broken,
even what’s handed down
++from precious hands.

Shakira Croce (she/her) is a poet living in Lynbrook, New York. Her poetry chapbook, Leave It Raw (Finishing Line Press, 2020), has received critical acclaim by New Books Network, California State Poetry Society, Mom Egg Review, and others. Croce’s poetry has been published widely in literary magazines and journals, including the New Ohio Review, Pilgrimage Press, Cordite Poetry Review, and Permafrost Magazine. Shakira currently works as Director of Communications and Public Relations at Amida Care, New York’s largest Medicaid Special Needs Health Plan supporting underserved populations living with HIV and trans individuals.