The Sight of Chronic Illness
Moments of awareness and struggle in Long COVIDMy firm hand holds
the slamming bathroom door open
On the hard white toilet seat
I see the pills --
brightly colored boxes
lying in days for wait
Sunday ones in purple,
Saturday in pink
Did I swallow them yet?
I cannot locate that thought
in my foggy brain
Outside the window
tracks appear in the newly fallen snow --
Coming and going footprints
etched in yesterday and the day before
softened by the winter sun
A towering black bear
was in my vicinity
Looked like it was still breathing
when it collapsed onto the frozen floor
My old injections
tossed into
an ominous box
marked BIOHAZARD
My beauty routine abandoned
in a zip-lock bag
by fingers pricked for blood
Purple for Sunday, orange Monday
Did I swallow them yet?
I cannot locate that thought
Will my bed stay undone?
Yesterday I struggled with matches
trying to light a warming fire
The smoke drifted back
to my bathroom
and I could not stop it --
choking on its fumes
The days of chronic illness stretch out --
too many quick paces behind me and ahead
in an endless maze
lived on half-speed
while I try
to pull my life
up a handicap ramp
I woke up this morning
listening once again
to the voices in my head
Does anybody know me, really --
I cannot tell
c. Triada Samaras 2025
The Sight of Chronic Illness
Moments of awareness and struggle in Long COVID
My firm hand holds
the slamming bathroom door open
On the hard white toilet seat
I see the pills --
brightly colored boxes
lying in days for wait
Sunday ones in purple,
Saturday in pink
Did I swallow them yet?
I cannot locate that thought
in my foggy brain
Outside the window
tracks appear in the newly fallen snow --
Coming and going footprints
etched in yesterday and the day before
softened by the winter sun
A towering black bear
was in my vicinity
Looked like it was still breathing
when it collapsed onto the frozen floor
My old injections
tossed into
an ominous box
marked BIOHAZARD
My beauty routine abandoned
in a zip-lock bag
by fingers pricked for blood
Purple for Sunday, orange Monday
Did I swallow them yet?
I cannot locate that thought
Will my bed stay undone?
Yesterday I struggled with matches
trying to light a warming fire
The smoke drifted back
to my bathroom
and I could not stop it --
choking on its fumes
The days of chronic illness stretch out --
too many quick paces behind me and ahead
in an endless maze
lived on half-speed
while I try
to pull my life
up a handicap ramp
I woke up this morning
listening once again
to the voices in my head
Does anybody know me, really --
I cannot tell
c. Triada Samaras 2025
Moments of awareness and struggle in Long COVID
My firm hand holds
the slamming bathroom door open
On the hard white toilet seat
I see the pills --
brightly colored boxes
lying in days for wait
Sunday ones in purple,
Saturday in pink
Did I swallow them yet?
I cannot locate that thought
in my foggy brain
Outside the window
tracks appear in the newly fallen snow --
Coming and going footprints
etched in yesterday and the day before
softened by the winter sun
A towering black bear
was in my vicinity
Looked like it was still breathing
when it collapsed onto the frozen floor
My old injections
tossed into
an ominous box
marked BIOHAZARD
My beauty routine abandoned
in a zip-lock bag
by fingers pricked for blood
Purple for Sunday, orange Monday
Did I swallow them yet?
I cannot locate that thought
Will my bed stay undone?
Yesterday I struggled with matches
trying to light a warming fire
The smoke drifted back
to my bathroom
and I could not stop it --
choking on its fumes
The days of chronic illness stretch out --
too many quick paces behind me and ahead
in an endless maze
lived on half-speed
while I try
to pull my life
up a handicap ramp
I woke up this morning
listening once again
to the voices in my head
Does anybody know me, really --
I cannot tell
c. Triada Samaras 2025
