Maybe it’s Emphysema, a shiny black jewel of phlegm <br />humming like a clump of bees in my chest. <br />Perhaps a tumor crawling in the crook of my armpit, <br />a blood clot opening like a tiny red flower in my brain. <br /> <br />Maybe it’s too early to show up on an X-ray, <br />a kind of cancerous seed planted deep <br />in my intestine, something like Leukemia’s ghost <br />haunting my hollow bones. <br /> <br />The doctor says I’m fine. <br /> <br />But even now, deep in the dark holes of my eyes <br />I can feel the cataracts spinning their silver webs. <br />Even now, in the bony cage of my lungs <br />I can feel the heart attack’s prologue, <br />the opening words of some prolific pain <br />like a bird stabbing its incessant beak <br />into the ripe red meat of my heart.<br /><br />Chris Tusa<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hypochondriac-2/
