he who waits

It seems obscene that painful suffering cannot be separated from death; of course, cancer is the villain I think of right away. Too many friends, too many loved ones...

 

he sits just beyond the circle of sunshine

that lights my world

silent and still like a marble rendering

he waits

he does not fidget

his foot does not tap

nor his hands dance in those useless motions of frustration and boredom

he is not bored

he has never been denied

he knows that he will get me sooner

or later

but he will get me

of that he is assured

I sense him there

he knows I do

we each accept the other’s presence

he does not step into the sunlight

and I do not build a wall

it is the way things go

and the way things have gone

 

I feel better, she said,

a firmness in her weakened voice

I think I’m on the mend!

 

it is awkward.  she is dying.

we all know and so does she.

but sometimes the dying say those things

for us

they can see him sitting there

and they want to save us from that certainty

they want us to walk out with a little hope

a little spark.

 

I took her cheesecake in the hospital

for her birthday

and she was gone before the week was out.

 

it is not him I hate

he is inescapable

it is the ravaging of their bodies while alive

the pain, the indignity, the pointlessness

I hate that    the disease

I want him to take that