laying on the pressure,
innocent of the bruises
this might inflict one day.
Hand in hand we walked, and I was proud
to have this destined cancer victim by my side.
I kissed her mouth and tasted only
sweet, untainted Yes.
She was lucky too, back then in ’88.
As long as she would live, she loved my body,
ignorant of what it held, and what it holds
in store for me. The skin she fondled
took pity, withheld from her its vilest secrets,
withholds them still (for now),
maintains the smooth façade
on which, on our first night, she shyly laid
her palms, her lips, her breast, her brow.
[indecipherable] kappa
The best doctor in our area
went into the woods one day
and blew his head off.
We were never told
why he did it; his funeral
was in a church, and the papers
were discreet.
A ginger-haired bear of a man,
all Scottish brawn and whiskers,
he liked you. He liked you a lot.
I think he was a little in love with you,
as so many men were.
There was a twinkle in his eye
when he’d bare your thigh
for the pethidine shot
in those halcyon days when migraine
was your big disease.
I wish his rendezvous with you
had pleased him even more.
I wish his ardour had been more profound.
I wish he’d stuck around to be the one
who diagnosed you.
I somehow doubt he would have sent
you home from the local clinic
clutching a scrap of paper scrawled with
[indecipherable] kappa,
immunoglobin [spelling error],
and a tip to go to Google and explore
what ‘multiple myeloma’ meant.
We followed that prescription
to the letter, sick with terror.
The words, as far as we could tell,
meant death, in agony, and soon.
Which just goes to show
it matters who one’s doctor is
on a given afternoon,
and that the best doctor in our area
should perhaps have been on better
medication.
Tests
You tell your children
you’re having some tests.
They’re familiar with tests.
You tell them
you’re having examinations.
They understand examinations.
You say
you’re waiting on results.
They know about results.
You are having tests, examinations, waiting
for results, for a piece of paper stating
how you fared.
You’re under pressure not to fail.
You are studying survival.
You are ill-prepared.
His Hands Were Shaking
His hands were shaking.
The haematologist
who lifted up your dress
and took the sample from your spine.
Also, he blinks too often.
You want to tell him: Look, this blinking
isn’t helping. Either close your eyes
or keep them open.
It would be nice to think
his tremble was distress
at causing pain to one
so beautiful and in her prime,
and not from drink.
In time, when these appointments grow routine,
you’ll pray the secretarial roulette
assigns you to a different member of the team.
In time, the trembling blinker will retire,
vanish unannounced and overnight,
and you will never have to sit him down
and say, Hey, listen, I’ve been thinking
about the shaking and the blinking,
and maybe you and I
are just not right
for each other.
