Broken, not repaired

“It’s her cells, darling,

Her cells have become—well—

They’ve changed

They don’t work like they should.”

Cassandra didn’t quite understand

But no five year old ever really did.

“Cancer” was as mysterious

As the boogeyman

As frightening as skeletons

In the dark as the

Skeleton’s smiling hopelessly hopeful

From hospital bed sheets.

“What are cells, mama?”

Cassandra frowned, hands tucked,

Squeezing, into the fur

Of her stuffed polar bear.

“Cells they’re—” mama sucked on her

Coffee stained teeth.

“They’re the little things

inside, in our blood, they—”

Mama didn’t really know much

About cells or cancer, but

She knew the point and Cassandra

Did too.

Lucy was dying.

And Cassandra was pretending

That she didn’t know.

But it made mama sad

And Cassandra wanted a smile

“Her blood is sick?” She said, looking up

With a sound conclusion that

Made sense and no sense at

All

Cassandra thought for a moment more

“Or is her blood is broken.” Nodding

To herself, she grinned,

“Mama,” she seized her hand,

“We need a—” her mouth halted,

Searching for the word,

“a mechanic.”