Side Effects

My hands used to be able to hold dishes, gently. But now, the dishes wink at me and shatter. Tremors are starting. I knew it. I’m not scared or angry. I grab a pen. Writing before it overtakes me. Roaring sounds. Whirling sounds. It’s all within. So I write about that. The floor tugs and pulls. I’m on the second floor. I can’t let it happen, yet. I write “the end.” Then I let it happen. Smiling like a cracked plate that knows its fate. Shaking, and it’s my hands. Paper tumbles from my hands. But never crumples or folds. Tremors. My poem ends and the tremors continue.