I am certain the ribcage pain I woke up with is stage-four lung cancer; it would explain the chronic cough doctors dismissed as allergies or reflux for which they prescribed over-the-counter pills that do nothing but make me tired.
I plan my service: the poems—Glück, Pastan, Simic; the music—Bach, Baez, bluegrass; the food—bagels, lox, the works. My sister will make a photo montage of me at various ages as she did for our parents, and some people will see me young for the first time. Lovely things will be said about me. My brother will crack jokes; the room will erupt in laughter.
I want my ashes mixed with those of my dogs— the still-living one, too, once she passes— and spread a mile out on Lake Michigan, along whose shores she and I have known so much joy. On that beach. In that water. Meanwhile, my sister, whose love I trust utterly, will adopt her and take my place.
I’ll bequeath the inheritance my mother left me to my friends whose money troubles have forced them to work too hard, forgo basic repairs, deny themselves travel and good health care. I imagine them with new HVAC, in business class, getting mammograms…endowed by my will, a power greater than any I’ve known in life.
Then, as hours pass, the pain improves, less like a dissonant chord than an off-key melody. Mostly likely just a pulled muscle. Why I don’t play Bach, eat bagels, read Glück, I cannot say.
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Lynn Glicklich Cohen is a poet from Milwaukee, WI. Her poems have appeared in Oberon, Red Wheelbarrow, Midwest Review, Evening Street Review, and numerous other journals. She was nominated for Best of the Net in 2024.
