BETWEEN BONE MARROW BIOPSIES

The word biopsy is misleading in that the prefix bio means life. On paper, procedure offers optimism. Offers a needle toward survival. In reality, it is administered fentanyl. An ultrasound machine guiding a needle to unruly lymph nodes. Guiding limbs back to a tan, leather reclining chair in a sea of tan, leather reclining chairs. In a wing of the hospital where children are not allowed to visit. A room full of toxicity. Where hair collects in piles in the corner. In a high school classroom, I overly concern myself with a cluster of human hair being pushed around by air vents and feet. This too is a room with too many chairs. Where people wait for what they would rather not have. A fluorescent room. I work all week. Through a fever. Through fatigue. Intrusive thoughts about cancer interrupt any quiet spaces. I forget which buttons to button I set my boomerang to in the forbidden forest. And I swing my sword, cast my grappling hook, and fan my leaf before finally launching the correct attack. I forget to put in a sub request for the 9s team meeting. When my team leader asks what I’m ordering for lunch, I say the mickey mouse pancakes. But when the waiter asks, I say chicken caesar salad. I cry at this lunch. I cry in the professional development meeting, I cry in the assistant principal’s office, I cry during sustained silent reading, I cry in the staff restroom, I cry on the way home from work, I cry while scrubbing sharpied dicks off the desks. I try to look busy, not defiant during the pledge of allegiance. I shrug and say, I’ve never heard of charlie kirk. I refer to myself using they/them pronouns so at least someone does. I show 4th period greta’s UN speech instead of the admiral urging them to make their beds in the morning… I add Palestinian literature to my class bookcase. I play owl house at lunch for gaybys making art out of pony beads. Not a single student misses bio on our word parts quiz because I explain the biopsy of my neck to students. How I cried as the young doctor who knew my sister in high school and wouldn’t shut up about it pressed the needle and the second needle into my neck to collect my living tissue.

ONCOSURREALISM

reject an echo
of yourself only visible
in parallel reflective surfaces, set fire
to a bed in which we have only
ever swapped personas, make vulgar
the notion of gender
any way that you can, no
longer fixate on the innards
of a glass, unwind your
watch, set it on my chest, let go
of linear algorithms, no longer accept
manipulations as a form of payment
for your services as eldest daughter.

through a window, a wire
saw cuts through stag’s antler, welcome
multiplicity, as in write a poem about writing
a poem about writing a poem
about writing a poem about
writing a poem
about your sister, search the entire lineage
to see if she cast the first poem,
dictate your entire day on dream
logic, each room is liminal
if you don’t look for the walls, if
you avoid symbols like flags and
logos and time stamps.

you were horny earlier today, sweating
after your own likeness, and so, on every timeline,
you are capable of loving yourself, this logic
only holds if you believe
that love and lust can be interchangeable. I want to believe,
in another poem I rewrote all of your pronouns
as they/them/theirs, in this way I have edited you
in my image, try to spend more time
in room with people who are trying
to spend more time in room with people,
life boils down to a never-ending set
of phone timers, fill up boxes of what you don’t need
and still you have so much you don’t need,

write a research paper on lube, wish you were reading
a book, but you’re watching videos of David Lynch
fix his pants with glue and paint,
if you have desired me, even just to desire me moving
out of your way, you have experienced queer
desire. you’re welcome, eat stone

fruit over the sink
in lingerie,
let me buy you
a coffee and listen
to your obsessions,
no, whole almonds.
yes, sliced almonds,
it’s still soup season, babe.

IRREFUTABLE EVIDENCE THAT MY SISTER IS ALIVE

the hot pharmacist almost hands me a bag that belongs to you,
and this is only the myriadth time I’ve thought about you today,
memory count per day doesn’t lessen, but the ache is duller.

sister, in relation to other daughters, sons, children of the holy
ghost, you plague me best.
sister, I am 10 months sober, only 8 months off you.
sister, I am closer to god, but no closer to you.

our shared history, I document it on medical questionnaires,
a body horror of dermatitis and heavy bleeding
have you ever slipped in your own blood, sister?
held a clot to the light in fascination?

I flinch when a friend runs her hands through my hair
all girltouch is sister to me, to confess this makes me sick.
I am stuck like this, pulling your hair from between my teeth.

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Shelby Pinkham is a non-binary bipolar cancer survivor. They earned an MFA at Fresno State, where they taught composition and poetry. They have received fellowship through CantoMundo, Lambda Literary, and Beyond Baroque. Their poetry can be read in Huizache, The Offing, Apogee, and elsewhere. They teach high school and college students.