It has come to my attention that unless you have downloaded soundcloud you cannot even hear my poem. I will include the written word here. My apologies.
I wonder when I feel that bit of food sitting in the back of my throat, muscles struggle to move it, not unlike the three toed sloth, ever so slow. How long before it actually clears? Eating has become a chore, a war declared on the body.
A fatigue encapsulates me. One so strong it is believed I had exerted myself, but I actually have just awakened, yet to find the energy to shower. Unbalanced, bumping into objects like a pinball. Somedays on tilt, covered in guilt from the filth that MG has spilt.
But I will tell you I’m hanging in there because fear demands my attention, yet hides behind a mask. Fearful that one day these weakened muscles will give way like concrete breakwaters, no longer protective, creating a crisis. What will become of this vessel?
Deb Correia 7/1/17