I don’t know why it’s happening to me.
I’m a natural athlete. Toss me a
ball, any ball—oval, round, stitched—then see
me soar. Now watch my face jerk as via
electroshock. My left leg rebel as
though I’ve lost all rhythm. Nodules clump near
my thick wrists, lumping skin. My hands trespass
reason, pantomime mad typing in air.
Doc calls it Chorea. I joke, North or
South? He knows how I’m terrified. Tells me
to pray to the disease’s namesake. Sure,
I’ll try Crescentia, Modestus, too. Three
martyrs and saints could unite to cure this…
My tongue ties as my tight cheek muscles twist.
Roger Armbrust
November 8, 2008
