Every Moment Hereafter
by Jordan Hirsch

This news—I don’t trust it.

A phone call with a holo-

gram on the other end

telling me of lumps and

                                      dark spots.

 

They swim before my eyes,

flushing me with energy—chemicals

for fight or flight or freeze—

when faced with a messenger 

                                      of light

 

that’s seen inside, that’s looked

through tissues and blood and

lymph to uncover the nature

of the medical emergency

                                      coming back

 

stating, “We don’t know. We’ll

have to wait and see.” But

can’t your photons get a

glimpse, catch a fateful hint

                                      of the future?

 

Moving at the speed of life,

six months is an eternity,

stopped until the light can look

in again, too see if everything

                                      is stable,

 

if there have been any 

changes. But how will I not be 

different after this moment, forever

under the influence of 

                                      what you saw

 

under fluorescence? How

can the light not know what

a shadow is, assure it’s probably 

nothing? There is likely

                                    not a thing

 

to worry about. But what does

light have to worry about but

seeing too much? What do I have

to fret and fume over but

                                      everything

 

now?