POETRY BY RITA FEINSTEIN

The Autoimmune Year

This is the year our bodies say

fuck this noise. The year they 

go boom like a blue shell.

The year of Crohn’s, of Graves, 

of diagnoses wadded in cobwebs

and swamp gas. The year we

breathe shallowly so our 

air-bubbled hearts don’t burst.

The year of needles that siphon,

that suffuse, that stimulate

our acupuncture points.

This is the year we play

whose doctor is more sexist?

The year our friends preach

self-care when we can’t care

for ourselves. The year of no coffee,

no wine, no penne in vodka sauce.

The year of straining chicken broth

through our skeletons. This is

the year of smoke on the horizon,

of slowing to squint at the wreckage

and seeing ourselves in flames.

The year they shroud us in lead,

in surgical cotton, in paperwork.

This is the year we go dark.

But in the dark, with nothing

left to ulcerate, the year

turns on itself. And begins—

cruel, inevitable thing—

to devour.

A graduate of Oregon State University's MFA program, Rita Feinstein is based in Washington, DC, where she teaches creative writing to kids and teens. She is the author of two poetry collections, Life on Dodge and Everything is Real, both from Brain Mill Press. Her stories and poems have appeared in Permafrost, Grist, and Willow Springs, among others, and have been nominated for Best of the Net and Best New Poets.