By Alison Pick

I come by it honestly,
an heirloom passed
from my father
and grandmother before me.

In the bed by the window
she stares at the ceiling,
pills untouched on the dresser.
Cancer uncurls in her brain.

She says she feels nothing,
the heavy deadness
which also weighs me down.

Don’t worry, love, depression comes
and then goes. Soon
it will be over.

She says this to me.
And to herself.

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