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Thursday, April 27, 2017

The Cancer Chronicles, continued

barefoot doctor

pain creeps up like an angry cat
ready to rip your throat out
should you make the  wrong move.

During sleep 
I opt for dreams
instead of medication
and wake with aching bones
untouched by the morning dose.

Combing crystals through the air
I collect and discard
the sudden mud
of my aura,  and

Tuning forks sing their song
into my flesh
dancing with my bones
To bring peace
&
quiet.

Sometimes I boogie,
sometimes I don't

I pick and choose my medicine.

Crystals to clear and nurture,
Power songs to weave a circle
where I will sit for a moment
In time
transforming energy,
redirecting qi.

But this metastatic cancer
is a harsh mistress
Often refusing to budge
with either Oriental recipes
or Occidental masks.

Sometimes things work, bringing
relief, or tolerance, and
letting me believe in magic
once again.


Thursday, April 13, 2017

The Cancer Chronicles, part one


Sunday Morning (a day in the life)

The radiator spews heat and
there is no cool  breeze
coming through the window.

Shifting between time and days
I am unable to make sense
of the days,
Having been trapped like a bug
in amber

The bed sticks to my thighs
as if encasing me
in the slow drip of time,
A thick gush of resin
suffocating me.

No blue light of dawn
wakes me gently,
But rough transitions
of light to dark
with no twilight song
to welcome me

No pink tides across the sky
No violet hues or powder blues.

My legs stiffen and swell.
My movements stiffen and swell.
There is no release.

It is like glass cracking
beneath my skin
Creating a mosaic of flesh.

The hair on my body recedes
like an old woman
balding from head to toe,
A rapid demise of youth,
now just a memory.
                                    ***



Re-entry, Stage 4


Here is the prisoner of Cancer
unable to free herself
despite good behavior, and a
plea for pardons
sent up on the voices of prayer
by family and friends, and
even the most innocent of children.

We do not bend over and spread
our ass cheeks in search of contraband
But we are naked and exposed
Standing helpless as
not-so-magic markers
define the areas that will be incised and
excised, 
Leaving your chest flat and scarred and
seemingly Cancer-free.

And yet
The doors don't open,
the prisoner must return
after months of freedom,
Suddenly unable to defend herself
to even the highest court of God and
all his angels.

The cell grows smaller,
Spaces close in
as disease overtakes the prisoner,
Bit by bit
Encroaching upon her Lungs
with  no space to breathe;
Occupying her bones and
replacing it with pain
Like a punishment
for crimes
She can't remember committing.

Appeals fall on deaf ears,
Bones grow more brittle, breaking
her will to live 
at times, 
in this small box of lies.

"There must be some mistake" she cries.

"No', they say, 'We found new evidence
(of disease)  -  You're a Lifer now,
like it or not  -  Join the others
on Stage 4."
                                                 ***