*This is a reprint, as this piece was originally published in Wishbone Words, May 2025.

Sunday morning church bells ring
I perform my holy ritual
seven boxes for seven days.

Twenty-four daily tablets
twenty-four hours in a day
my lifespan meted out by dose.

Rainbow of pills reassures me
survival relies on compliance
miss a dose and die.

Warnings labels in bright yellow
caution me to wear gloves
while handling such toxic substances.

Biohazard bags and blister packs
protect me from this dire chemistry
I will soon ingest.

Promising survival but whispering side effects,
this Faustian bargain prolongs my life
but diminishes the living of it.

I have traded my fertility and agility
for sterility and increasing bone fragility,
hastening the rate of my body’s decay.

Still, I enjoy the warmth of the sun
instead of the cold full moons of two pennies
pressed down to hold my eyelids closed.

---

Dawn Levitt (she/her) is a two-time heart transplant recipient, poet, essayist, and disability rights advocate who writes at the intersection of storytelling and healing. She lives near Detroit, Michigan with her husband on the island of misfit rescue dogs. Her work has appeared in Newsweek, Insider Magazine, Remington Review, Breath and Shadow, Pink Panther Magazine, and many other journals and anthologies. 

Instagram: @dawnlevitt_author
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