False Alarms
Part 1
I draw a full swirl
of intestines tucked in bed
on my shower door
and stand in front of them
to stop the image
from reflecting onto white tiles
but project myself
onto my doodle instead.
My nervous system and immune system
are stuck in high gear
during the worst years of my life.
Heal what no longer needs healing,
hammer into finished wall
then abandon them in the debris.
Scar tissue like too many layers of plaster.
Body so self-sufficient it’s insufficient.
Fulfills its prophecy
where in the well-intentioned
process of trying to fix itself,
it breaks further.
Vicious cycle so cyclical it’s constant.
Autoimmune disease as permanent
as shattered glass.
When I give up on trying to put my digestive organs
down for a nap, I tuck myself in bed instead.
No matter how many times I recharge my batteries,
I can’t stop setting off false alarms in a body
with insides tiled like a kaleidoscope that
reflects onto itself without
recognizing itself,
amplifies a problem
where there isn’t one.
My partner puts his head on my belly,
takes deep breaths until I mimic them,
and succeeds in using the soft lacing between us
as a firm barrier between my brain
and my gut.
His presence makes more sense to my body
than the typically well-tolerated anti-inflammatories
it aggressively rejected. I saw them as overkill
when my destruction is a toddler,
tantrum ending in distraction—
until corrections pile up, or a final paper is due
or it’s the day of the poetry slam,
or a dinner party is too loud,
or my family members avoid each other
in the same room,
and I might run to the bathroom
because I am the sacrifice to their anger
twisting in
on myself in
the tension.
Externally, my body lazily zips up its coat
and grabs its laptop during a drill at work.
Internally, it can’t recognize itself as a safe person
the way it invites a concoction of medication, probiotics,
soluble fibre, and the echoes of a gut-directed hypnotherapy app
as guests. Or the way it trusts my partner.
I am not independent in keeping my body in balance
but remind myself that my heart’s correct placement
is off-centre.
Having a heart is more than calling my doctor,
seeing my therapist, or standing in line at the pharmacy. It’s
getting out of the shower and surrendering into my partner’s arms
until I see myself
even through a fractured mirror,
until I stop
mistaking
my reflection
as an intruder.
Part 2
On a Tuesday a 3:04 am, the alarm system in my building went off
and stopped before I had enough time to put my socks on.
This left me confused— should I finish putting my socks on or
go back to bed? Awoken again at 3:12 am, I evacuated, socks on.
On Thursday, the same sequence repeated itself at 3:33 and 3:45 am.
An alarm that couldn’t sustain its blare. Incapable of deciding
if it should stick to yelling fire! or admit mistaking
a clean breeze for smoke. Less of my neighbours bothered
to leave their apartments this time. Made lazy
by their compounded anger. My partner and I lingered
in the lobby ready to leave if necessary and could see the fire trucks
pull away with their wasted sirens for the second time that week.
I considered going back to sleep with my socks on
forever.
But didn’t want my feet to live the rest of their lives
as if an alarm was about to go off.
The couple next door was furious,
my partner was dreading work the next morning,
but I just had an epiphany: I can’t live my life bracing
myself for flare-ups either. I am healthier
when less prepared for an emergency
and more prepared for rest. Chronically healing
rather than chronically ill.
I left my socks on the floor like the large pills
I dissolve in my mouth before washing them
away with a cup of water. The socks smell
of lavender now and are put away,
as routine as the vitamin D tablets
that follow my meds each morning.
I don’t even recall which pair I was wearing
or how to layer my
pain
tolerance
inside thick winter boots.
My new storms ease off before lunch,
don’t make me resort to the rain date.
There are new sensors in the alarms
in my building; they haven’t gone off since.
As an English teacher and spoken word poet, Lucia De Luca plays with stories in the classroom and at the mic. She is a community and self-taught narrative poet whose work cradles tales of her past self, family, Italian heritage, chronic illness, and love. Lucia is a recipient of the 2022 QWF Spoken Word Prize, a two-time Canadian Individual Poetry Slam finalist, and a member of the 2023 Throw Poetry Collective slam team. In June 2023, she performed at the 1st Accenti Magazine International Festival of the Arts in Italy.
