All the high notes you loved before
are sharp,
reverberating in
what is left of your brain.

This thing takes no advantage
only waits to lose space and die,
unmasterfully on
the loose ground of your
foremothers.

But, who knows
where the cell divides.
Scientists know the rna,
the chemistry,
but the spark of death
is still something
predictable in its unpredictability.

For sure, its
every stumble
exasperates your disease,
pinning it back against your crown
and showing it
the wealth of your will.

Each dissipating tendril
is buried
under the sign “never again”.
Never again.