Holtz Children's Hospital, 2022

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.