6/14/2016 2 Comments Three poems by Ally MalinenkoKarma I’m not angry, she tells me. It’s karma. Someone somewhere had to get sick the universe demands it. So why not me, with healthcare and stability and all the tools I need to manage it. I’m okay with it, she says. I would rather it was me than a single mother with no insurance and two kids. Someone who can’t handle it. I’m not angry she says. Even though she is also in her thirties with cancer. And I realize then she misunderstood what I meant by anger. I try to explain I’m not angry for just me, I think, I’m angry for all of us. Because this country has failed us because pharmaceutical companies make money off of a cure that leaves us sick and stripped and wrung out like a dishrag, wet and sloppy and useless on the kitchen counter. Because doctors can add a wing on their new house up in the country when they lay out my treatment options. Because religion has wormed it’s way into legislation blocking research that could save lives under the pretext of god’s will. Because we have all settled for Cut, Burn and Poison as if that were enough, falling to our knees each night, thankful to live in this country telling ourselves how lucky we are calling this diagnosis a fucking journey. Surgery #1 Careful, you say, stepping gingerly around me as I shiver, half in the tub half out naked my hair sopping wet the soap running down my back as you wash my hair because I cannot. There you go, you say like a mother, and wrap the towel around me. You seem content, caring like you're doing a job that maybe you were always meant to do and upon seeing my face you offer, Relax, you'll be able to wash your own hair soon enough. Just another week, probably. Don’t Live (On the Ground Floor) Don’t live on the ground floor is what he tells me over his shoulder because he can’t bother to turn around and look at me, me in this window, late at night, asking him with his friends and his bottle in its black bag to please keep it down. Not, I’m sorry or we’re leaving or jesus are we inconsiderate assholes who think we own the street the neighborhood, the city, the world. Just don’t live on the ground floor. A sentence meant to remind me that this is his world and he will do what he pleases in his world and if I don’t like it, well I better not live on the ground floor. A sentence I’ve heard before not the same words, per say, but the same meaning as Why are you getting so emotional? Stop being an attention whore. Don’t be so bitchy. Stop being dramatic. I was just trying to give you a compliment. You should smile more. You’re going to wear that? Don’t be a slut No one wants a virgin What war on women? You’re too pushy. It’s a turn off. Ugh, are you a feminist? All words said to me by men some I’ve known many strangers like this guy, on the stoop in front of my window telling me again Don’t live on the ground floor or Don’t be a woman if you want any peace in this world. ![]() Bio: Ally Malinenko is the author of the poetry collections The Wanting Bone and How to Be An American (Six Gallery Press) as well as the YA novel This Is Sarah (Bookfish Books). Forthcoming from Low Ghost Books is a poetry collection entitled Better Luck Next Year. She's at @allymalinenko mostly talking about David Bowie, Doctor Who and stupid cancer.
2 Comments
Aswin
6/15/2016 06:14:40 am
I loved these poems. I felt them, more like. Thank you for sharing.
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