Poem for January 2 Poets and cancer
take time, steal (t)it. You think,
you have,
life with set mornings, afternoons,
chosen evenings. Stanza tsunami hits,
then dry-locked land,
dusty dance card filled
with same partner over and over, over -
smells like moth balls,
steps on your feet. We all have bad ass cell phrase
but bodies eat it, spit it
into waste and dissipated air. May not be there one week from today -
poets tend to be coy as ductal carcinoma in situ -
but decisions, evaluation have been made. I think about Plath-head-in-oven,
wait on doctor's cold steel
bed wearing panties and pink paper vest. Pink journey: pink housecoats,
ribbon sculpture, artwork lining walls,
Pepto Bismol speculum. Comforting? Political statement?
Can't tell the meter from the phase.
Pink isn't the color of my poem. Breast cancer isn't my thing either
though it apparently thinks it is. Where do we get these wayward lovers?
Between the poem and the disease to be the needle phase.
Do you want to live on the afternoon, choose.
Passage of the sea, after dry given soil, soil Yangwu card full one and phase companion - played like pills, arrest.
Have a not shares Cellular words, but the structure of the wave and scattered empty.
Can keep a star days - people to blush as a guide proto - policy, estimates.
I pull the head, steel and other doctors, with pants pink paper heart.
The process of red: the red ranks silk carved surgery lining the wall, where Yang bismuth shot.
Comfort? Governance?
Do not tell meters of the stage. Red is the milk does not matter,
But significantly recognized it.
Nay have any please?
Magnificent. and touching. Thank you, thank you.