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In the trenches
When a new patient enters the ward, everyone sees
how far they’re advanced. Beginners have hair
and eyebrows. They’re scared. They can’t comprehend
why such fate befell them. Those returning
for the second or third time completely bald
unpack their slippers and toothbrush like one come
home after a long journey. Whether they hope
or not, they do what they must. They make
no fuss about vomit, or getting positive results.
Those who’ve been here for months, whose condition
got worse after temporary improvement, whose tumor
in the stomach has grown, or a new one was discovered
in the frontal lobe show where they are; they have
no more strength to fear or to trust.
No strength to demand to be given special
attention. Nurses treat them like some old piece
of furniture we like, but would rather give away.
They are the last to get their infusion
and are not asked at all if they had stool.
Each one, a distinct body. But like soldiers with feet
numb from the trenches’ cold mud, they belong together.