The Dancer

A poem about a woman ( my mother ) dying of small-cell lung cancer.

 

1.

Beautiful cancer

Moving softly

Like a dancer through your blood,

To pirouette through lung and brain

And your bones

And your bones

And your bones

Are all that will remain.

 

It eats you.

It burns you.

Teaches you from the inside

Breeding immortal

Karmic

Judicial

Tumour.

 

Who could hear it grow inside of you?

 

Immune to herblore and medication,

Chemicals and radiation,

To grant you the time for consideration

Of your life till now

And all that made you a shadow.

 

2.

I caught a cursed glance of you naked

And there was nothing there.

Your ribs protruded like the chrome venting on a machine

With no purpose, no design, for the human body

As the flesh hangs dull

Especially capped by your mottled skull.

You have no need for that expression of vacancy

So close to attaining the most untellable secrets.

Use these moments wisely…hold them close to you

With the passion and vigour of a youth forgotten;

Be wondrous

As you approach. Grow wise.

 

3.

I try to talk to you

But you do not listen.

Listen:

             Do you hear it,

 

A subtle bullet moving softly through your blood?

Do you hear it?

No.

You can only fear it, as you feared life,

As you feared being a mother and a wife,

As you feared being a somebody for anybody else.

Three children,

Eight grand-children; one more to come,

Arriving any day now. And mine

Ezekiel, whom you will never meet;

That opportunity you wasted with your ignorance.

All the generations to come and what will you impart to them?

Knowledge of lunacy,

Knowledge of hysterical alcoholism,

And the faded hopes of small-cell lung cancer.

Faded hopes……? You never had

Hopes. You had gin, a cheating husband,

A misplaced life, and a disappointment

In your children before they were forming

(especially your son, remember

you confessed to attempted abortion

with a bottle of spirit and a boiling bath).

What will you have at the end?

No grand-children of yours will come.

No relative or sibling will grace your presence.

Your daughters will not come

Till the casket be your bed. Your husband will neither

Kiss nor hold nor have the strength to guide you

Through to finality.

But I will be there

Colder than death itself

I will close your eyes

Tenderly, I may kiss your forehead

And I will read to you.

Reviews

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

enthralled by the subtle yet savage pain ~ the matter of fact bleeding in words~ I have never seen an illness of body and illness of charachter drawn so expertly as you have done here~ this is an exquisite rendering ~ absolutely and completely engaging~

[Kelly Rainwater]

How often do you find yourself struggling for the correct adjective? To call this piece "amazing" or "wonderful" or "brilliant" seems to fall so short of how utterly, truly, completely amazing, wonderful and brilliant it is, on multiple levels. Love, sadness, anger, loss--to name a few--are all depicted so perfectly. Aside from appreciating the craft/art of this pieces, the simple humanity touches me deeply. I am so glad I found this piece and stumbled upon your incredible talent!

[Rain]

Omigod, what a moving piece. As she wilts away to nothing, she had a life, perhaps not the ideal life, perhaps an atrocious life..but she created you. She left a gift in you. I know your heart by your writing. Her life was not meanless. Most important is she die without pain, and be allowed dignity in death. She did the best she could, given the burdens life placed on her. Small cell is so deadly, and you have chosen to guide her. You are precious. This is such a sad write, yet you give it meaning. She was real, alcohol, misery, abuse and all..and you see that. I am honored to read this story. Rain..