There is a point where all the metaphors fail. I look for new poetry to address this fever which refuses to go: 37.8 again this morning, heading in the wrong direction. I notice how the ruthless passage of the chemotherapy destructive/life promising drugs settle on sites of the body’s history as if it is remembering its damaged places. I even thought that I extracted a tiny fragment of glass from the scar in my forehead from the car accident 40 years ago. Pain is largely left side centric where I always seem to injure myself: ribs, knee, ankle and the dark pain that radiates from the low back. Observing these patterns of pain I decide that my mental strategy, to regain some sense of control as I wander lost in this wasteland, is to imagine that my pain history is being exorcised. Burning feels like the process rather than any gentle erasure. I am always heartened when I see a green shoot on a blackened trunk after a fire. Burn on chemo. I live in hope for the new body.