Elisa A. Garza
RADIANT HOPE
The arm of the radiation machine arcs across,
delivering invisible fire that doesn’t go out,
an offering in hope, a prayer for cancer to stall.
Each week, my skin reddens. The dutiful techs gloss
over this burn, a necessary omission: no doubts
in the army of radiation. The machine arcs across,
assault aimed at margins and nodes, but I’ll need a posse
if the cancer regroups. Meantime, this daily bout
is relentless prayer, hopeful that cancer just gets lost,
goes away. I visualize the goal, try not to boss
my body, but submit to treatment, believing, not proud.
From the arm of the machine, radiation crosses
through tissue to my back. The beams draw
a butterfly shape, a secondary burn loud
and bright as hope, wings of prayer that fall
as skin tightens, then peels. My life remains paused:
no working, no travel, nor out and about.
I endure radiation daily. The machine arcs across,
repetitive as prayer, hope reverent as a canticle.