The Unwelcome Visitor
by Sarah Marie Graye
He’s tall and skinny, takes long, silent strides
For some people, he carries knives made of rib
For others, like me, he arrives quietly, without a hello
With a squeeze and a ripple, he pushes himself through
He’s not the gust that whips up autumn leaves
Nor the icy blast that numbs my cheeks in winter
He’s not the breeze that makes spring flowers dance
Nor the warm summer fug that sits on my shoulders
He’s the extra breath of air that lives within me
Visits are sporadic, occasional, rarely every season
Growing slowly, I feel him press upon my pleura
Then grumbles and pops, announcing he’s here
Occasionally, he’ll close the door behind him
And leave me of his own accord
But other times the doctor needs to assist him
Leaving tiny incisions between ribs, like footprints
Where he’ll walk again with long, silent strides
Sarah Marie Graye is a PhD candidate on the University of Kent’s Contemporary Novel: Practice as Research programme. She suffers from idiopathic emphysema with focal collapse and fibrosis, and both her research and writing focus on illness narratives.