anvil

2022
Rachel Jendrzejewski

today I woke up (bright sun
radiating), ruminating

about the pro bono lawyer
whose volunteer work seems to be
telling people, yes

the system is exactly as it appears to be

we were talking about disability benefits

the social worker had sounded optimistic (“compassionate
allowance”)

but this lawyer looked me in the eye (camera,
actually, it was Google Meet), asked where exactly
the cancer had spread

“because if it's only in the bone,” she blinked

“because people are living with it longer these days,
sometimes ten years or more,” she blinked

“so if it’s only in the bone, hasn’t spread to other organs” (yet,
a silent word hovering like smoke)

“the benefits might be denied,” she blinked

all I could do was blink back, repeat "only
in the bone? only?"

"yes, only,” she blinked
the tiniest of flinches betraying
perfect awareness

when I mentioned the spot in my liver she perked up

"oh—bad news for you, good news for eligibility!"

we moved on, discussed how to talk to the state
about ebb and flow of ability, energy, unpredictable
erratic work arrangements

we discussed how much money
one can and can’t make
if one requests benefits, how much money
one can and can’t make
if one receives them, how much money
one can and can’t make
if one wants to maintain one’s affordable state health insurance

the answer is, not enough. she asked
if I know about this or that
$250 emergency grant

I don't really want, didn't mean to tell you this

just still standing here, frozen (bright sun folding),
holding

the information like an anvil

trying to understand where to put it, how to fit it
into a spreadsheet, list, nap, five more phone calls

before it smashes everything, like in an old cartoon

and yet anvils also support
the shaping of metal, describe

the horizontal extended upper parts
of cumulonimbus clouds