THE STATUE

'Dying is fun! ' you say
'...once you get the hang of it...'

'...& as long as
the pain stays away! '

Your face says ouch
without saying 'Ouch! '

'It adds an extra spice to life
knowing how many minutes there are left! '

'I calculated it  with my solar power
pocket calculator! '

'It seems like you live it twice
as fast...twice as intense

seeing everything
so precise

seeing even
what's.. not...there! '

The pain laughs at your puny efforts
to control it.

'Doc...says a year(at the most)  
maybe a matter of months...weeks! '

'It depends on what the cancer thinks! '
you laugh.

'And to think I'm a Cancerian! '
The pain has not got your sense of humour.

Already I can see it is bored by you
tries to wipe that grin off your face.

It almost...succeeds.

'Seems like I'm nothing now
but this cancer! '

'It's all that anybody can see! '

'Like it's been rubber stamped
on my forehead or something! '

'Well, Mrs. Cancer...'
I swore I heard the doctor say.

'And, all that my friends can see is...my death! '
'They annoy me with their crying! '

'Hello...hell.. o! I'm not dead yet! '
'This ****** cancer has taken on a life

of it's own

tells me what I can or can't do! '
'It's the boss! '

'Now...that there's a limit to it
Time...is precious
can't bear...to waste a minute.. of it! '

'It feels as if the cancer
is a famous sculptor

& labours to create
the shape of my death

bit
by
bit! '

'Seems like it's one of those
ugly modern abstract statues

you know

meaning nothing
with a hole in the middle! '

'And everyday the cancer
chiseling away at it

striving for perfection! '

'I tell the cancer
Oh...get on with it! '

'Get it over with! '

'See...I'm becoming quite the philosopher! '

'Now...get out of here! '

'Stop talking to a dying woman
get out in the sun don't waste
a min-
-ute
of
it! '

I laugh.

You're still so.. you!

You ask me for a favour
before I go.

I scratch your ***
(you can't reach it no more) .

You tell me
'That's the best scratch in all the world! '

I smile tell you
you always had the best *** in the world.

You laugh.
(It...hurts) .

I go

Close the door behind me
on your dying.

Step into brash sunlight
that feels like it's lying.

Two months later your death greets me
disguised as an airmail letter.

I missed your dying by a week ...it seems
I'm in a different country...crying.

A weak sun
shivers in the land

of the living.

From beyond
Death

you write me
a private letter

with handwriting
I wouldn't recognise as yours.

It just says:

'Donall Donall! '
on the envelope.

Inside
(a card)  

a wood engraving
by Eric Gill

the one with Mary Magdalene
covering a crucified Christ with her body

her hair like a river
covering them both.

The handwriting almost broken
only kept alive by your iron will.

'Guess the statue's done
&
Death is no Michelangelo

could have done better myself
but I wasn’t up to it! '

My tears
dissolving your words.