She bathes, dresses in a haze of memories
knowing what awaits her there;
each year another look-see but it's
more than routine and part of her history.
The fears wait there too.
Old familiars accompany each event
evidenced by each scar she bares;
every battle wound
re-traces the map of a nightmare.
The questions, the fear, the forms to fill out,
the inherent tension, the shadow of doubt
the waiting to hear ONLY five days from now;
all play a part in her private hell
and it's a rough old road for anyone to plow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem