At first, the telltale signs were few and inconsistent-
a momentary shortness of breath; a dry, unproductive cough;
quick, stabbing pains like split-second jolts of electricity-
nothing to indicate the destruction developing inside his chest.
So he ignored them.
Have you had a chest x-ray, I suggested, rather than asked,
for the second or third time that summer.
No, and please stop reminding me, he replied.
I wonder, as I gaze mesmerized at the slow and steady drip of
toxins falling into his veins, if he recalls those reminders now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem