Holtz Children's Hospital, 2022
I still think it’s worth a shot. I’ll think of / tulips, of Plath.
by Bella Rotker
It begins with the swelling. Another round
of pills. There is no way to describe
it other than the blood breaking
in a beaker on my doctor’s desk. The elevator
ringing through the southeast ward. The sound
of the car engine after I’m told there is no
treatment. I read Lucie Brock Broido
and WebMD, the phone rings.
Dr. Young says it’s dangerous even
to breathe. I still think it’s worth a shot. I’ll think of
tulips, of Plath. I’ll yell when the gauze
comes out of the incisions and the blood
pools in the hardwood paneling. The neighbors call
and ask if everything is okay. I grip
my throat and no sound comes out. It’s not silence
but something closer to maybe. I have
learned the best places to muffle
the sounds of my sickness. In waiting
rooms, alcohol-streaked beds, at my desk
into a copy of Frank: Sonnets.
Dr. Hogan apologizes when he sees me
in another paper gown. Dr. Trujillo draws
the blood himself. Parts of me are always
drawn, excised, kept in beakers. Parts are tucked
behind paper gowns and poems. I read
Carolyn Forche at the cardiologist
and the nurse tells me to put the book
away. I tell her that I am becoming a poet,
not because I can hear my heart beating
right through my skull most days, but because
I swear I might die if she doesn’t know
anything this time. Poems unwrite
themselves like blood draws. Stitches are ripped out
and re-implanted. Like the legacy poets,
I am untangling this horribleness
into sonnets made of my suffering,
like organs spilling out of my stomach.
I tell the nutritionist I’ve been
chewing my lettuce dutifully
and she checks a box. I quote Plath
in the OR and no one laughs.
Bella Rotker studies at Interlochen Arts Academy. Their work appears in The Lumiere Review, Full Mood Mag, Neologism, and Best American High School Writing, among others. When she’s not writing or fighting the patriarchy, Bella’s hanging out with friends, watching the lakes, and looking for birds.
