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Cream melts into our bowl of gingery meal, while outside the window: windfull of blackening sumac. An up-gust silvers it,
Well, the tumor's growing again
scents the air with an autumn molder Yankee Candle couldn't shoehorn into a jar.
so they've stopped my treatment.
Indian pudding coats our throats with its amber warmth. The sky is the color of her
I felt like a guinea pig, anyway.
beads, and speaks of promises barometers make. But the air is under too much pressure to keep them,
so I begin a new treatment on Monday.
so it bursts into brilliant orange- red vortices of fallen leaves, astonishing the lunch crowd.
She licks her spoon and smiles, Fourth time's a charm.
Christina Cook is a poet and translator whose work has appeared in a number of journals. This poem was inspired by the strength, courage, and optimism her mother showed when going through treatments for breast cancer. "Indian Pudding" is dedicated to her mother, Linda Jason.
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