You may experience
necrosis of the jaw, the collapse
of your spine, the disintegration
of your skeleton, ruptures
in the brain, cardiac arrest,
ulcers in the guts, haemorrhaging
sores, embolisms, cataracts . . .
But let’s not jump the gun. Relax.
It may never happen!
The following are far more common:
moon face, vomiting, exhaustion,
puffy ankles, night sweats,
rashes, diarrhoea, going bald,
fluid retention, abdominal distension,
‘moderate discomfort’ (also known as ‘pain’),
extremes of hot and cold,
prematurely growing old,
other gripes too numerous to mention.
You may also, if you’re vigilant, detect
psychiatric side-effects.
A mood diary may be beneficial.
At certain stages of the cycle
you may find yourself getting tearful
for no apparent reason.
Change Of Life
In our former lives, B.C.,
all sorts of issues seemed to matter –
like minor wastes of money, and a scarcity
of storage space.
Never the canniest shopper,
you’d managed to amass
at least two hundred menstrual pads –
and you were fifty-two.
We did the maths, and made a bet
on whether you would ever get
through all those pricey towelettes.
Now, at fifty-three,
you’ve started chemotherapy,
and this, in turn, has caused
a swift, ferocious menopause,
or, as our forebears might have said:
‘the change of life’.
Suddenly, it’s over: the love affair
you once maintained with turtle necks,
mock polo necks, artful layers,
blouses, tailored outfits, fancy collars . . .
Your chest needs air.
A dozen times a day, you grab
the V-necks of your newly-purchased tops
and pull them down, revealing your brassiere.
Panting, you expose your mottled, sweaty flesh.
Our banter shifts: a different tease.
You shameless exhibitionist!
You floozy! Just as well I don’t require
a wife who keeps herself demure.
In fact, if you’re so hot, my dear,
why not remove the lot?
You stretch beneath me, sexy still,
your clothes cast down next to the drawers
where those superfluous pads are stashed.
We take our time. An hour or more.
Halfway, you briefly, indiscreetly pause
to take a pill.
Prints
Like a pet that comes in wet and muddy,
fur matted with adventure, you return,
bright-eyed and wild, from your nocturnal jaunt.
‘Load the pictures in,’ you say,
handing me your camera, cold as frost.
You’ve been haunting Invergordon’s shore,
photographing the rigs at Nigg.
I slot the memory card into a USB.
(Your work’s all digital now, and done at home.
At hefty cost, you print your own giclées.
You can’t be arsed with darkrooms or with labs.
Your trusty Topcon’s in a cardboard box somewhere;
You’ve thrown your dusty chemicals away.)
‘Call me when they’re in,’ you say, and scoot
to the kitchen, footmarks trailing from your boots.
The images are blurry. They were bound to be –
hand-held, no tripod, in the wuthering night.
That’s how you want it. Twenty years ago,
you travelled with a swag of gear
and strove to get exposures right.
Now you’re chasing arcs of feral light,
smears and shadows, eerie and mysterious.
You’re ready to evolve. You’re getting serious.
Onscreen, umpteen skies and oil rigs manifest
before us as you sip your drink. You note
the ones that might be worth the paper and the ink.
Then you begin to print. Most likely until dawn.
In
