Fear

Since my brother’s cancer came back

I’ve tasted dirty pennies.

Not a stick of Dentyne - not a

cigarette will stave it off.

Sipping a cold martini from

a hand painted glass I bought to

make me feel better masks it for

only the moment.

Awake at three-thirty, I blot

sweat from my face, brush my teeth

wash down Xanax with water from

a plastic bottle.

The pounding in my chest subsides.

At last I sleep - hair dried in

curly mats against my pillow.

©  2011 cj Schlottman