Putting Cancer In A Poem
You have to be careful how you do it — The first line for sure’s no place, even The second or third might let it spring Leaks and streak everything beneath. No, First you need to let the light flap in From the uncurtained window, catch The deep breath off the gardenia bloom Doing the backstroke in its brandy snifter As the doctor on the phone says what he Has to say, and your wife and friend wait With wineglasses and the porch fan on, Chatting and looking for you to come back With the hors d’oeuvres, the Vinho Verde, The poem of your life with its new name.
Fellows
Wounded like me, willing to talk, knowing What a scarecrow cancer is, how people don’t Want to linger near that kind of news, including Friends who mean well, look away, act as if They can’t hear, humming in their ear, “You’re Human, human, human, you poor thing, Did you think you were special or something?” Like me, who didn’t know I was like him Until today. So, sure, he’ll meet for coffee, lunch, Talk on the phone, exchange biopsy stories, Gleason scores, radiation and the luck Of early diagnosis, the years of silver lining We are in for. I glance at his face, and it’s Like a film has been wiped away, the fine Forehead, the cafe window a tiny rectangle In the eyes — the pure daylight of a look That doesn’t need to look away.
