THE SPECIALIST
5 days ago
1 min read
By Ashnok Jahagirdar
The liver’s just a punchline with a pulse.
The heart? A pump that learned to grieve.
My doctor says, “Don’t laugh—it’s serious”.
but serious is how we spell “relief”
I tell him, “Doc, the tumor’s got my humor”.
He writes a script. The ink is almost black.
We both know hope’s a tax the living pay
to keep from hurling diagnosis back.
He asks about my pain. I say, “The scale?
A one means fine. A ten means born.”
He nods. We share the joke no one laughs at—
the body as a house that’s always torn.
Outside, the chemotherapy van hums low.
A child’s balloon escapes into the wire.
I think: “At least the cancer’s not a metaphor”
Then light a cigarette. And hold the fire.