Not That You Ever Quite Did

On an afternoon when you were never
Not among objects and drugs, you never

Could seem to get things quite to when never
Was that flawless afternoon never,

Back when falling in love with a never,
Gave life its life dependent on never.

Uzzier

You get kind comments
You have to say

So kind you would presume
You would have to kick them

All too quickly away

You dream the daffiest phrases
In your hallucinatory naps

That never ride out the hour—
It used to be treasonably fantastic—

And then someone knocks at your door

Another medicine needle
Another set of questions

And fluttery or firm suggestions
We need to do this to get you well

Another buzzer buzzier bell

Breathe Out

Whether it’s good news or . . .

different news,

A doctor said, and you thought about that,

Different news. Easy euphemism,

But a heavy lift for difference here

Implying something more than opposite,

The doctor just didn’t want to say bad,

Since death would be the certain suggestion

In your situation. Death is never

Simple enough to be certain,

Just certain enough to be devious,

To have all the time in the world for tricks,

 

Which is why any news involving death

Always makes you want to hold your breath.

A Little Buzzing

Life is good when it feels good,
However abstemious,
However bacchanalian.

If all life always felt good,
You wouldn’t miss suffering,
You wouldn’t worry the costs

Of feeling good were bad
Feelings later, nor blame good
(Indulging in feeling good)

For giving you bad later.
True, good will lead on to bad,
While bad will lead on to good.

Sun in the sickroom window—
What makes you feel good is good.

Day Rose

A few mornings ago,
Light in the window, pulse
In the chest, old music

On a laptop, rucked sheets
Pulled up around the rest.
Were you a body?

You were. Anything more?
The metaphysicians
And scientists confer.

While you wait, are you now
Embodied, any pulse
At all? Well, must be so,

If you’re encountering
These phrases. Memory,
Though, is so slippery.

All those mornings you drove
Up mesas in starlit
Predawn dark, past mule deer

And jackrabbits, to watch
The day begin, glowing
In your brain. Was that you?

God, the air was so clear,
And the River of Souls
So bright. And the day rose.

Clubbable

Every condition has a club.
Most you don’t know til you’re in them.
Bumming around the world’s a club

You join in remote locations.
Unlikely cancers form a club
And unlikely lives lived with them.

The Ivy League dropout who lands
In some remote, provincial town
May be startled to discover

Three more Ivy League dropouts there
Who, of course, all know each other.
It’s not always comfortable.

As someone with two doctorates
You could end up with a colleague
With two who embarrasses you.

As someone with a freak disease
You could find others with the same
Who are convinced God can explain.

But you’re in there. You’re in the club,
However rare, and there’s always
More in there with you than you knew.

Voices from a Windy Cliff

It was slightly comical,
Slightly insane, the manner
In which, before surgery,

The surgeon and patient sat
Chatting about possible
Outcomes, probabilities,

In clear, lighthearted voices,
Friendly new acquaintances
Who could have been discussing

The weather as easily.
“If the nodes test negative,
That’ll be great, what we want.

Of course we’ll still do chemo.
If they come back positive,
The chemo just buys some time,

But probably not a lot.”
Imagine driving a cliff
Road rapidly eroding,

While chatting casually
About driving strategy
And when to know you’re over

The edge, how the wheels will feel
Once spinning in empty air.
The cliff would crumble quicker,

Of course, than would the body
With the cancer. Then again,
Weather can be a killer,

Part of why folks talk so much
About storms and their forces,
And what every omen means,

Since every conversation
About how things will turn out
Turns on slower or faster.