Poetry by Bianca Grace

             ​Dane CC



Ode to My Chronically Ill Brother

When the neurons were burning 
down your body, you would morph 
into the blue power 
ranger and pretend I was Rita Repulsa, 
so you could save yourself 
and the world. I’d roll my eyes 
and hope one day
you would be healthy 
enough to plan your escape,
wear the blue spandex suit at Disneyland. 

Your body recovers 
slower than the Pokémon lesson you gave 
while we lay on the trampoline
like Arcanine and Pikachu,  
under the midwinter sun. You evolved 
into a full-time patient.
The exploding pain in your fingers 
detonated when you dared to play
the bass guitar in your rancid bedroom.

I was certain
your phone trekked to the Lost 
Galaxy when my calls went unanswered,
for the third time in a week. 
I didn’t know you were buried
in another doctor’s office adorned 
with certificates to match
your perfect stitched up scar. The sorry
I missed your calls exposes
my possessiveness and I demand
to know why I haven’t heard your voice

in seven sunsets. The sorry I missed your calls
is intoxicating euphoria injected
in my veins. I know your heart
is beating and mine wouldn’t 
beat as strong if we didn’t share
the same planet. The sorry
I missed your calls, another diagnosis.
I become breathless
thinking about the next genetic condition
that could pop up in my own body like a surprise 
birthday party I never asked for. 

Even when my emotions fly off the chart 
hanging at the bottom of your bed 
and the oxygen mask 
covers your face,
no communication is a vital sign 
that you are trying to survive.


​

Bianca Grace is a poet from Australia. She writes from her living room which is overloaded with photos of memories which she draws inspiration from. Her work has appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, Selcouth Station and Ample Remains. 

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