(a poem for Pernille)
This here’s Aunt Linda’s purse, I say,
as I sling my chemo bag in a casual way.
She’s paisley and patient, with a zipper that sticks,
and she rides on my shoulder through thin times and thick.
She’s loud without speaking, and jangles with grace,
she's seen more hospital lobbies than your Aunt Deb's face.
She’s got ports and a pump and a tube like a tail,
and the sass of a lady who once drank gin by the pail.
We walk like a sitcom — me and my purse —
past nurses who wink, and doctors who curse.
She’s got that Auntie vibe, bougie but real,
the kind who brings bundt cake and closes the deal.
Sometimes I imagine she smokes Virginia Slims,
tells the other chemo bags, “He’s mine, not him’s.”
And when I get tired and sit on the floor,
she hums like a Buick from ‘84.
So don’t give me pity, or whisper with dread—
Aunt Linda’s alive, and she’s pumping me red.
She's got one goal: keep this poet upright,
through Tuesdays and treatments and long-ass nights.
Call it strange, call it fierce, call it cursed—
I just call it love.
And Aunt Linda’s purse.