Suspend All Disbelief

by Karen Friedland


It’s spreading and growing
much like wildfire—

studding the omentum,
speckling the liver,
wrapping itself around the rectum.

You haven’t caught a break,
my oncologist agreed.

So I stride into the day,
suspending all disbelief
high up in the trees.

I’m still here!
I do not say.

Just feet hitting pavement,
just sunshine on my face.

Everything is illuminated.


* * * * *

Once a grant writer by trade, Karen Friedland had poetry published in the Lily Poetry Review, Nixes Mate Review, One Art, and others. She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her books are Places That Are Gone and Tales from the Teacup Palace. Karen lived in Boston with her husband, two dogs and a cat. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in November 2021, two days before her 58th birthday, and died on April 14, 2024.