Three Poems
Abecedarian for Somatic OCD or Health Problems Unchecked
Ache roots in my back, extends tendrils downward, signals growth
beneath the skin, lesions budding at the surface, indicating B-cell
carcinoma blooming, like my grandma had removed. Small spots,
dimpled and pink, like images online. I’m unable to objectively
evaluate my body for concerning symptoms, but I still try as my
form morphs in the mirror. Dull pain triggers a night spent in bed
Googling how to tell if you’re having anxiety or pulled muscles or
heart attack, without receiving solid answers, only suggestion of
infection festering in tissue. Maybe my doctors made an incorrect
judgment, nothing abnormal, maybe I wasn’t vigilant enough in
keeping track of changes in appearance, new swelling. Now my
lungs heavy with tar or disease spreading, difficulty switching off
manual breathing. I close my eyes, press fingers to chest. Lymph
nodes stiffened, a reaction to altered genetic codes replicating in
organs, early alarm system, so I hydrate more, try to filter toxins
penetrating bloodstream, latent viruses, check my health stat app,
question if my watch provides accurate readings of resting heart
rate, waking cadence of breath, hours of sleep in the night, cardiac
stress still rising as I shine a flashlight inside my throat, notice my
tonsils asymmetric as always. Uvula touching tongue, so I search
uvulitis common causes and cures, three pages of results already
viewed, links lit up purple. I know to drink tea, gargle warm salt
water, eat soft foods for quick healing. I’m worried about past oral
X-rays, excessive radiation’s damage, free radical deposits. I skip
yearly appointments, avoid diagnosis, confirmed fears. Risk brain
zaps from sudden cessation of SSRIs, prescription out of refills.
Daily Horoscope Says Be Cautious in New Relationships, Says I Need to Seek Small Pleasures
I don’t let myself believe in religion, spirituality, god,
astrology, but I downloaded Co-Star for this girl I’m dating, she says
my signs are fucked, she loves Taurus women, hates Taurus men, something
about a moon or rising in Gemini or Scorpio means I’m calculative, manipulative, ready
to ruin everyone’s life. I don’t let myself think about anything higher than myself, but now
I read my daily horoscope while she traces our poetry professor’s name on my back, it says
I’ve been having trouble in sex & love for the last two months, and this will continue
for the future it predicts, I can’t stop feeling past hands, cold and slimy
against my skin, broken barriers, drawn blood, my new girlfriend keeps
her apartment cold, I pull her blankets up past my neck, wrap my arms around her
for warmth, wish I didn’t crave the solitude of my own bed where no one can
touch me.
Can Someone Tell Me What Season George Dies in so I Can Prepare Myself?
All I want is to curl up underneath all my blankets and watch an episode of Grey’s Anatomy
before my next attempt at reading the three-page story which I have to write an essay on by
tomorrow afternoon, yesterday I read for five hours, three of which I was caught rereading the
same sentence over and over, unable to look up, drink some water, and somehow I still couldn’t
tell you what Death of a Moth is even about, so I’ll start from the beginning when I read it again,
but right now I want to watch an episode of Grey’s Anatomy, stare at Jesse Williams shirtless, and
not think about impending due dates for the next hour and a half, I’ll watch an episode of
something where no one dies afterwards, probably Parks and Rec again. Right now Lexie is
begging Meredith Grey to donate part of her liver to their father because Lexie isn’t a match, my
legs are hanging off my bed, I’m watching for a couple minutes while psyching myself up to
walk into the kitchen and refill my cup with water, when Meredith turns around, her ponytail
blurring across the screen, her eyes almost making contact with mine, when I think I hope I die,
and then the remote is in my hand, dropped on my bed, in my hand again, dropped on the bed
again, and in my hand again, my thumb now against the rubber buttons, pressing in to travel
backwards ten seconds, see her hair flash in repeated motion, thinking I hope I live, repeating the
movement each time I think incorrectly, or have another bad thought, words are hard to control
when they aren’t written down, my arm is growing sore where it’s bent at the elbow, but I can’t
move it, only punch my thumb into the same button again. I rewind and rewind and rewind and
I’m definitely not writing this fucking essay tonight.
Reynie Zimmerman is a poet from Ohio. He is in his second year of Miami University’s MFA program. He has been published in Molecule: A Tiny Litmag and will appear in an upcoming issue of Poets Choice.
