Nancy Krygowski

Elegy in Present Tense

He’s climbing a tree, he’s standing on the beach with me, he’s holding
a radio antennae out the window as he drives, he’s finding
the 49er’s, the Indians. He’s turning 29. He’s driving
to Arizona on a whim, he’s calliing from Idaho, calling
from San Francisco, telling me I love this city. He’s growing
a mass next to his lung. He’s telling me not to break
a certain heart, he’s telling me he will get
better. He’s finally crying. He’s hovering over his guitar, hovering
at the refrigerator, pulling out cottage cheese, barbeque sauce. He’s blacked out, hit
his head on the bathroom mirror. He’s slapping
his red tennis shoes against the linoleum, dancing
to The Pixies. He’s getting his t-cell count. He’s walking
across the bridge, walking in the door, he’s saying hey there and saying
no chemo this Friday—my temperature was 103. He’s slurping
the bowl of soup, the cup of coffee. He’s mumbling
through the morphine. He’s buying me birthday cake, handing
me a tinfoil crown, saying you’re queen for the day.
He’s granting me three wishes. He’s refusing
to eat macrobiotically. He’s telling me his newest theory on sex,
his newest story about dogs. He’s telling me The Plan. It starts with—I
live.

—Nancy Krygowski