the inevitable question

arises again

and it cuts

just as deep

as it always does

 

the inevitable question

always asked by someone else

always painful

always innocent

and always answered with a slice

 

the inevitable question

on this weary evening

this repeated hell

of the days we retell

when we’re old

(if we get old...)

 

the inevitable question

comes

and it doesn’t hurt—

as bad

 

the inevitable question

the invisible tension

and he asks

“mom,

what’s for dinner?”

unaware that I’m getting thinner

and that I am not a damn winner

not your inspiration

not your goal

not the one to look up to

because the illness takes its toll

 

and that’s just one

inevitable

question