I have been listening to the same song
over and over again
for the past five days,
trying to calm my body down—
some smooth and quiet song
with barely any lyrics.

It is not working.

My body has a quarrel
with being hit by comets
three times in the same week.

My son took forever to answer his phone.

'Dad, Mom has stage three cancer.
Is that bad'

I paused a few seconds—
the way you try to tidy up a room
as you go to answer the door
to an unexpected guest.

'Do you think it’s bad, Dad, do you'—

'We will just have to wait and see.'

But I know it’s bad.

I am stuck in a play
written by Albert Camus,
and I am the main character
called Spooky.

My mother died from stomach cancer.
I survived it.
And now my ex is stuck holding the bag—
what are the odds.

And it’s bad—
it’s about closure,
about not saying your lines
when the play was on,
not about rehearsing years after
and trying to land all your marks
now that it is too late.

It’s about how I had to say farewell
to my son before my operation
because he couldn’t follow me
to the hospital—
COVID lockdown.

It’s about giving closure
when it’s due.

It’s about how my ex ended up
with the stomach cancer I had,
with the same oncologist I had,
the same surgeon I had,
recovering in the same room
where I recovered—
what are the odds, the ******* odds.

It’s about how my son lay on a mat
next to his mom, calling me every night
for some comforting words,
while my ghost sat in a big red chair,
watching over them from that same room.

It’s about how she called me
to ask for forgiveness
for throwing me down a staircase.

[...]

I told her to rest,
to take care of herself—
that it was okay.

I am not much of a liar,
but I have a **** good bedside manner.

I sent her a poem about forgiveness.
She texted back saying I should publish.

The last time I published
was the same year
she threw me down the staircase
and said my poetry was toiletry.

Tomorrow—
I will take the mirror down the staircase
and put it on top instead.

I will take off all the tribal
and war masks along the wall,
replace them with pictures of my son,
and call it 'My Son Climbing the Years.'

I will send her a bouquet of violets and daisies
a bouquet of having faith in a new beginning
I will leave my son and his mom
the house for the summer,
they can enjoy the river and the valley together.

My mother would have liked that—not the house part
how I can let her rest and find closure.