To help save your life, 
the doctors made you swallow 
isotopes of iodine. 

They locked you inside 
your hospital room, left you 
counting days and clicking. 

Drinking by the jug 
water so you can pass 
radioactive piss. 

Taking showers and shampoos, 
washing off your body 
the poisons in your sweat. 

Touching your family 
only with your eyes—thin 
smiles behind leaded windows. 

Waiting for your half-life, 
your slow isolation, 
to tick its way down. 

And when the Geiger clicks 
slow enough to let you 
out of the hospital, 

you still aren’t in the clear, 
still must sleep alone, 
still must do without warmth, 

without hugs while you worry—
did the isotopes catch 
all the cancer? 

Is it safe to breathe? 

Bio: Gary S. Rosin