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.