Michael Mahin is a Hodgkin’s Lymphoma survivor. He was diagnosed in October of 2017 and finished treatment in April of 2018. He recently celebrated his 3-year anniversary of being cancer-free. Michael developed his own self-publishing press in 2021, entitled Pumpkin Boy Press, and plans to publish his first book of poetry within the year, exploring his experiences in and out of cancer treatment. More information about Michael, including his upcoming poetry book, can be found at https://pumpkinboypress.weebly.com/ or via Instagram: @pumpkinboypress.
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Photo credit: Michael Mahin
– first, some small things –
from the infusion chair
some small things flash in tight bursts
(like a silent storm of pummeling fists):
|| the glimmer of water through careening car windows ||
|| the stiff autumn leaves we once swallowed as children ||
|| or my grandmother’s hands like puckered crêpe paper ||
and in the wake of remembering,
left wondering how soon i’ll see
these small and sacred things
again
– what would you take –
if all of it was over // all-of-a-sudden
the question // of what could you carry
(as you trace // the pallid pink of the port
scar, scarred // just below your collarbone)
it isn’t exactly // easy to answer
people will tell you simply // not to go there
but it is, in some sense // a logistical question
you put books // in boxes
you touch keepsakes // that make you feel nothing
you think of your sister // laughing
you hear the words // of women
who sang you // into existence
a stevie nicks record // that glorious sound
or
you hear // your mother’s voice
calling you up // over the hill, again
back to this world // that you almost
wasted
– a litany of what-ifs –
what if // the worst thing already happened?
what if // you survived it?
what if // the clouds kept rushing in, anyway?
what if // you fought them?
what if // you didn’t know the way forward?
what if // there was so much more brokenness to come?
what if // the joy was hard to predict?
what if // the pain felt neon, ever-present?
what if // you were lazy in its wake?
what if // you were gluttonous in its wake?
what if // you were selfish and sad?
what if // you had to be?
what if // you let it go on too long?
what if // one day you decided to stop?
what if // you were cured of the cancer,
but not of the everything else that came after?
what if // the worst thing wasn’t an excuse anymore?
what if // you forgave your life?
what if // you forgave your body?
what if // you forgave yourself, for not healing sooner, stronger,
better, faster?
what if // you made a change, just to remind yourself that you
were alive?
what if // this change was a mistake?
what if // the mistake was necessary?
what if // you stopped being nostalgic for every other period
in your life?
what if // you chose to love this one?
what if // you loved the days that you didn’t love at all?
what if // you survived the worst thing and still felt empty and
aching?
what if // the pointlessness was the point?
what if // the hurting was random and impersonal?
what if // you made the healing pointed and personal?
what if // the sun always looked somewhat strange
afterwards?
what if // you learned to love it, anyway?
what if // you started today?
– joy –
i wanted to write about joy
something uncomplicated
something unmarred by
men that didn’t want me
or the cut of cancer
really, i didn’t want to
write a sad song, again
sometimes it feels like
all i’m ever good at:
rewinding old wounds
and yet, here i am, on a
sunny sunday afternoon
in the last remaining days
in the month of march
and there’s this certain song
this breeze tickling my toes
this pale, eggshell blue sky
and the clouds drifting by
and this feeling in the air,
even if it’s only for today,
shit, like i’m gonna be okay.
gotta go.
putting the pen down.
letting the light in.
letting my life in.
