What Do I Do Now?

 

I am certain the ribcage pain I woke up with

is stage-four lung cancer; it would explain

the chronic cough doctors dismissed

as allergies or reflux for which they prescribed

over-the-counter pills that do nothing

but make me tired.

 

I plan my service: the poems—Glück, Pastan, Simic;

the music—Bach, Baez, bluegrass;

the food—bagels, lox, the works.

My sister will make a photo montage

of me at various ages as she did for our parents,

and some people will see me young for the first time.

Lovely things will be said about me. My brother

will crack jokes; the room will erupt in laughter.

 

I want my ashes mixed with those of my dogs—

the still-living one, too, once she passes—

and spread a mile out on Lake Michigan, along whose shores

she and I have known so much joy. On that beach. In that water.

Meanwhile, my sister, whose love I trust utterly, will adopt her

and take my place.

 

I’ll bequeath the inheritance my mother left me

to my friends whose money troubles have forced them

to work too hard, forgo basic repairs, deny themselves travel

and good health care. I imagine them with new HVAC,

in business class, getting mammograms…endowed by my will,

a power greater than any I’ve known in life.

 

Then, as hours pass, the pain improves, less like a dissonant chord

than an off-key melody. Mostly likely just a pulled muscle.

Why I don’t play Bach, eat bagels, read Glück,

I cannot say.