The Falls
by Marissa McNamara

The words flow
too well: the alliteration
of a testicular tumour, syllabic
slide of metastasis that speaks
like a tongue twister until you say it
so often it glides from your tongue; the nasal
beat of nausea, simplicity of just a node, proud
and round, like a stone; lymphoma is far too mellifluous,
a tiptoeing nymph waiting to be seen; and who knew something
as luxurious as platinum based chemo could produce the metric precision
of residual masses or pulmonary side effects? The words descend like the beauty
of water over the falls until it is you in the barrel approaching the swirling rapids.