Cancer in Three Acts

I.  Bone Marrow Biopsy


breathe in


breathe out


hands gently stroke my arm
the delicate touch, the extra soft touch
can only mean the pain will
be that much harder to bear


breathe in
focus
breathe out


focus,
dammit


hands on either side
gentle, gentle. . .
the needle makes its descent


pressure,
pain,
searing pain,
searing fucking pain


breathe in,


breathe in,


steely gaze,
stay focused,


breathe out.




II.  Chemo and Remission


The heat that hairless summer, child,
I was damn near close to death -
breathe in, barely a breath out;
salty rivulets slinking across my pate,
as I struggled to make that hill. 


Chemically driven, almost unnaturally still,
I could sit for hours upon hours at a time,
occasionally wondering if I would see any
of this again in the coming year,
too lethargic to care enough to cry.


The slight breeze might pass over me,
and if I felt it, it didn't register any change. 
Mosquitoes stayed clear, perhaps possessing
some fear of the poisons that lie beneath my skin.


The irony of remission
is the celebration around you
when you feel mostly dead.
They tell you that you beat it,
when, really, you just feel beaten down.




III.  Later 


She said,
'that pain in your back,
it's not what you think'
and since I wasn't really
thinking much of anything
other than what the hell
did I do to it,
I simply said, 'yeah.'


When you've had any
great illness, had anything
more than slightly serious
they always assume
it's in the back of your mind,
like you've already set a place
and are thinking there will
be a guest for dinner.
And I wasn't.


But now
I'm wondering.


Although, like a friend
that's moved far away who
took all your attention while
they were here – you might be
a bit richer for the experience
but in no hurry to repeat it and
certainly don't anticipate their 
subtle move back to town.


You know
I've been there, 
and yeah, I could do it again – 
harder and stronger, ready to face
whatever comes this way, 
but I'm not laying out the mat 
or cooking dinner.


Hell, my good plates 
have long been packed away.
You show up at my door
unannounced, uninvited,
you'll get fast food 
on paper plates and like it 
and soon be on your way.

At Night I Hear Cars

At night
I hear cars.

I wonder who
has come home
and realize
no one else is coming.
I’m here alone.

It’s not sad
or even lonely,
just an odd awareness
that you’ve grown up
and moved on to where
your life should take you.

The house is
now more quiet
and I luxuriate
in its peace.

Like the aftermath
of a great party,
there’s stuff to
relive and cherish,
much left to tend to,
even more still
to clean up.

For all the planning,
the last minute
scrambling, we made
it through just fine.

At night
I hear cars
and gently close
the front door,
turn the lights out,
go to bed.

I’m already home.

Still of You

I see the words upon 
the page, and I'm drawn 
to your pain as if I can 
fully embrace it 
under my skin,
in my heart and make
it somehow different.

Yet part of me knows 
I can't, knows I won't and 
still I keep at it - a fruitless attempt 
at creating something out 
of everything that you resist.

I know your blood. I know 
there's pain and it twists right 
through the tender edifice
still of you and I hear the words 
long ago uttered of me, the one 
searching endlessly for something 
she really knew nothing about.

Vision

it has been many years
since they last spoke
she’s been out of the game
for so long now

she’s got everything to offer,
but it doesn’t feel that way
awkward, wondering 
what he’d even see in her now
the memories hold true, 
he sees them each time
he looks in her eyes, 
remembering just who she was
what she knows 
is still true about him

on the road to this place
it seemed so far away and long
sometimes the best parts of them
got left without knowing behind

even if they could go back
the pieces no longer fit
but when he looks in her eyes
he sees it’s all there
she sees her own reflection
being swept close to his

he likes 
what she believes him to be
she loves 
that his vision is so strong

sometimes love is
a tattered comforter that feels like home,
and wards off the chill that lingers close by

Kitchen Table Kin

They were kitchen table kin
not linked by blood except
the occasional bloody nose
scraped knee or elbow
with babies and ambitions,
whiling away many an afternoon
trudging through snow and
each other’s problems
over coffee mugs and girl scout cookies -
oblivious of things to come.

In time tears of kids gave
way to tears of adults as
marriages dissolved, dreams
died away. illnesses set in
and children grew up.
Sometimes the bills even
got paid while life sped on.
The kitchen chairs lay vacant
and the table in wait for
coffee mugs and cookies,
laughter again amongst tears.

By chance or was it just destiny,
when they came together again -
giving comfort, bringing laughter,
the circle once again closed.
They talked of old times and new times
as kin often do, and the times they
wished they had been together around
that kitchen table drinking coffee,
sharing cookies and what was
happening in their lives.

Older now, perhaps they’re wiser,
comfortable with who they are -
the laughter, the friendship,
their joy in making it this far. 

My Grandmother Often

My grandmother 

often fingered her 
rosary beads 
while my mother drove,

especially on 
inclement days,

although the chill
between them

surpassed 
the ice on the road.

Duplicitious

She finds 
her own truth, 
and seeks comfort 
in the words, whether
they are true
or not.

Covering 
unsavory actions
under the thick cloak
of purported concern,
she seems 
to care.

Cleverly
embracing, she 
simultaneously calculates
what might be left and 
what gain there 
might be. 

The façade
always well played
convinces the unsophisticated;
those not privy to the knowledge
that act two is about 
to begin.