Kerewsky reminds herself that she too becomes the weeds in the soil.
There Are Always Weeds
The weeds don’t end,
can’t be extirpated,
only held in balance.
They’re good at what they do,
better than I, with my
big brain and distractions.
Horsetail older than us all
proliferates, infiltrates,
takes it over with its
itchy rhizomes.
My own secret cells,
self and not-self
and the fungi, too,
the blood grass, too.
As you know,
I’m not very smart
sometimes, walking barefoot
in the garden
against medical advice.
Walking where the black widow walks,
grasping where the blackberries
force their thorns, under
the hot sun, also proscribed.
I dig my toes into the damp soil,
remind myself that I become
these weeds, rooting everywhere,
upending everything,
sunward, all.
I have been trying to write about my bilateral breast cancer experience in a way that holds both the dread of mortality and the hope of living.
This post was written and submitted by Shoshana D. Kerewsky. The article reflects the views of Kerewsky and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.
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