This is less a poem and more a dispatched field report from the frontline of chronic illness, and that is precisely its power. Plahm abandons metaphor almost entirely, instead offering the forensic specifics of survival: Eternal Chicken Soup made from celery, carrots, white onion, all-natural chicken stock and bone broth, sous vide-cooked free-range chicken breasts cubed into each daily bowl. The inventory reads like a survival manual—because that is what it is. The prose paragraphs documenting his precautions (Benadryl removed from packaging, EpiPen at the ready, watch worn constantly, phone in back pocket, SOS contacts updated) create an almost military staging of defenses against an invisible enemy. The confession that this was the sixth reaction since January, despite meticulous avoidance of red meat and collagen, captures the maddening unpredictability of AGS—you can do everything right and still be attacked. The shift from prose to verse in the closing lines is the poem’s structural masterstroke. After all the clinical detail, the final words break into staccato fragments: “I / live / on.” Each word occupies its own line, each one earned through the preceding documentation of near-death and its aftermath. The BB King allusion (“the thrill is not gone”) carries double meaning—the thrill of living persists, but so does the thrill of death’s proximity. This is survival poetry stripped to its essentials.

A startlingly effective piece that proves poetry doesn’t require metaphor to achieve emotional impact—sometimes a grocery list is enough. The Eternal Chicken Soup recipe functions as both literal sustenance and ritual of control in a life governed by unpredictability; naming every ingredient is an act of reclaiming agency from a disease that strips it away. The prose paragraphs documenting emergency preparations are chilling in their matter-of-factness—Benadryl unpacked, EpiPen positioned, SOS contacts updated—reading like a soldier’s pre-patrol checklist. The admission that this was the sixth episode since January, despite perfect vigilance, is devastating precisely because it’s delivered without self-pity: just the facts. The structural pivot from prose to verse in the closing lines is beautifully calibrated. After the documentary flatness of the body, the staccato “I / live / on” achieves the force of a manifesto—three words, three lines, three acts of defiance against mortality. The BB King reference adds cultural warmth without trivializing the experience. Where some readers may find the piece less successful is in its hybrid form—the prose passages sit uneasily beside the poetic conclusion, and the piece reads more as a blog post that discovers its poetry at the end. But that discovery is the point: beauty emerges from survival, and the act of writing after an episode is itself proof of the closing declaration. Essential AGS documentation and genuine art.