Cheeseburger

All I could think of when they did the biopsy
was a cheeseburger. The cautery after
removing a small tumor on my cheek.
The smell, like driving past a burger joint.
I don’t even like cheeseburgers anymore,
maybe just the idea. Being young and
carefree. Death and decay, words like
metastasis not yet looming as I sat in
the front passenger seat of my friend
Heath’s car. Melted cheese and grease
running down my fingers. It is a long
road from this moment to that.
I go home, a bandage on my face,
and pile cheese on some sourdough.
Toast it until the edges burn.
It’s the most delicious meal I’ve
eaten all week.

Chandra Alderman lives in Canton, Ohio. Her photography has appeared in The Octopus Review, The City Poetry, Thirteen Myna Birds, and Trailer Park Quarterly. Her writing has appeared in The Country Fried Panda Poetry Anthology, The Roads at Night Looked Like Our Futures: A 40 Over Forty Poetry Anthology, Trailer Park Quarterly, Live Nude Poems, Red Flag Poetry, and Uppagus. She can be found on Instagram @peggyhoneydew.