Miles upon miles,
Riddled with beds.
Tissues and soft hands,
To wipe my tears.
Piles upon piles,
Of blankets and food.
A nice, big bowl
Of serotonin.

...and still, not owning
Hands enough to cover the
Places that hurt,
She finds the energy to

Lift my spirits with a smile
Of the kind that melts polar
Ice caps and creates galaxies
Without a sound.

She's had nose bleeds,
Stumach aches,
Dizzy spells and shortness of
Breath these last weeks or so,
And worry is a vampire attached
To my neck like the
Opposite of an IV; draining
Me, leaving me
With more than one of the
Same ailments.

At 38, I'm on six different kinds
Of daily medication. **** this
Stitched-up heart, with
Its moving
Parts of metal.
At 24, she doubles that.
Every piece of good news has a
...but... nailed to it like
Vinnie the Poo's friend Donkey's
Tail,

And I wish I was the healthy man
She deserves. One strong enough
To carry her bucket loads of
Tears, her chestfuls of well-
Earned bitterness. But I
Tapped out and went home
For the weekend. Recharging in
Countryside silence and solitude.
This is my docking station.
Superman and the sun.

*“In the unlikely event of a sudden
loss of cabin pressure, oxygen
masks will drop down from the
panel above your head. Secure
your own mask before helping
others.”

Are you just going to stand there and
Watch me peel this garlic, she asks.  
I shrug with a slight smile.  

Beer to my lips, and I catch her moving
The way a dancer does when she doesn't
Dance.

What is art?
This.
The juggling of seconds that contain

Something more than all of those
Without her.
We could be on a midsummer

Balcony in Venice, or
In a barley field in Provence, mid-
Kiss and laughing so soothingly the

Sun doesn't even feel like it takes.
Red skinned by sun-down, sipping
Local wine and asking ourselves

How the Hell life became so
Liveable. But she's in my kitchen, *not
Dancing across the worn down linoleum

With a freshly peeled piece of garlic in
Her hands, and I just found the key to
The treasure chest that contains

All the reasons I have to keep
Breathing instead of not
To.

Sun not even threatening
To set on this
Spring
Evening, and through her
Window facing the
Backyard I only now realise
That the maple tree must
Have been
Blossoming for days.

I suppose I was too occupied
With nonsense to
Notice.
Let's go, she whispers.
Let's forget about holding
Back, being rational, being so
******* realistic. Leave with
Me and just love.
I might.

I might already
Have come.

Our problems may tower
Above us, peaks the size
Of hopelessness casting
Shadows as dark as
Our deepest despairs,

But the view from the
Bottom of this valley we're
In lies about the hight of
The actual mountain.
And ****, that sky is blue.

Hello fate
I keep avoiding you
I keep looking for a purpose less difficult, looking for a place on the ground
I stay frightened of the stars
One day I'll fly away
I'm sure
One day I'll slip and slide and levitate
and forever lose your hand
Forever
Cold, alone and an absolute wildflower growing trembeling in the sky
With my cloudy brain
When will we learn to comunicate? Several years ago
and in a future
where everything is silver

I

She exits herself on the
Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits
Of a poem on a pad of paper

On the table, like a half-eaten
Piece of homework.
Shades of wine on her sleeping

Lips. Exits herself; space-walks
Outside that frame of mind she's
Been expected to hang herself

On the wall within; she knows
There is more.
There has to be more.

II

She has to be more.
Like so many writers, she falls
Asleep working. Sometimes

Works to fall asleep.
Digging her way through
Herself, mining for words,

Hacking away at painful pasts,
Gathering emerald experiences.  
Diamond doubts and ruby

Regrets all fuel her poetry.
And she reads, spotlight kissed;  
Audience adored,

Goosebump summoning; hairs
On arms and necks stand up as
She whispers directly to me.

About me. Because of me.
In front of everybody.
To music, and I've brought a box

Of pins, and between each of her
Every word, I drop one. And I
Swear to the gods, you can hear

Them all. Like the unsteady
Ticking of a clock too cool to
Care.

III

Poetry jewelry; set with stones
From her innermost. Chips of
Gold from her heart melted

Down to a key pendant she
Holds in her hand; chain dangling,
Eyes closed, forehead resting

Against a door she knows it is
Time to open. Key in one hand,
Pen in the other,

She
Enters
Herself.

Cancer, old devil.
I've shaken my fists at your
Ugly back as

You've laid your
Hands on my loved
Ones.

Cursed your name;
Kicked at your
Shadow. At last you've

Gathered the
Courage to
Face me. I

Suppose you could only
Ignore me for so   
Long.

Come at me with scythe
Raised, I'll stand,  
Broadsword

Drawn.
No shield; double-
Grip-swinging.

I'm ready.
No nurse ever saw
You greeted

With
A smile like
This.

I've always loved to make her laugh.
She deserves as much,
My mother, the hero.

First call from the hospital;
The worst one I've ever made.
"I'm sorry. Yes, it's cancer."

Hearing a mother's worst
Fear grip her throat with the
Force of a crocodile's jaws around

The neck of something
Unsuspecting.
She does what mothers do: Finds

Strength within the heart of
Complete devastation.
Clears her throat and tries to

Speak,
But the sounds she makes are
Fingernails on

A blackboard to a sympathetic son.
I am not the victim here.
I am merely a messenger

Whose life is on the line, bringing
Bad news to the
Undeserving.

"Didn't you put us through
Enough with your nearly failed
Heart surgery a

Decade ago?"
She manages a stab at
Sarcasm, and I

Smile in comfort
At her
Courage.

I smile into my phone.
I smile at the emerald
Lawn around the

Hospital. At the sky, where low,
Dark clouds speed above me
Like angry, little spaceships. I

Smile at the horizon, where
The sun sets behind an
Almost pitch black

Promise of evening rain.
And my mother doesn't shed a
Thousand

Tears. She sheds one.
One single tear, the size of a
Womb around

Herself, like hers once
Held me.
A shield of salt water,

Transparent kevlar of
Maternal self-defence.
Flashbacks from little legs kicking,

A sore back and things swollen,
The battle of her first birth.
"Life's not supposed to

Be boring," I try, and she grasps at
Anything light-
Hearted in desperation,

Letting out a little laugh; not
Forced, but faint.
A slight relief from the

Nightmare.
I've always loved
To make her laugh.

She deserves as much,
My mother, the hero.
There are parents who

Take their childrens' good
Health for granted.
I know two that

Never will.
"Have you spoken to your father?"
"I'm going to," and we

Hang up
With our usual I-love-yous.
The wind picks up the fallen

Features of August, whirling
Them against
Bricks and across parking

Lots, and I pause
Before I
Dial.

Swig of cold coffee, button up the
Ridiculous patient-
Shirt they gave me, and

I can't take my eyes
Off of that
Horizon.

That dark, wet deluge approaching,
And it's dad's turn now.
I love to make him laugh.

This time I won't try.  
I crush a handful of dead leaves that I  
Surrender to the wind

As he picks up and answers with
An unsteady, nervous eagerness.
"Yes, hello?"

"Hi, dad. It's me."
I brush my hand clean on
My pant's leg

And begin with the loving
Determination of
A parent about to rip a

Disney-band aid from the
Bruised knee of an anxious
Toddler.