Poem for January 2 Poets and cancer
take time, steal (t)it. You think,
you have,
life with set mornings, afternoons,
chosen evenings. Stanza tsunami hits,
then dry-locked land,
dusty dance card filled
with same partner over and over, over -
smells like moth balls,
steps on your feet. We all have bad ass cell phrase
but bodies eat it, spit it
into waste and dissipated air. May not be there one week from today -
poets tend to be coy as ductal carcinoma in situ -
but decisions, evaluation have been made. I think about Plath-head-in-oven,
wait on doctor's cold steel
bed wearing panties and pink paper vest. Pink journey: pink housecoats,
ribbon sculpture, artwork lining walls,
Pepto Bismol speculum. Comforting? Political statement?
Can't tell the meter from the phase.
Pink isn't the color of my poem. Breast cancer isn't my thing either
though it apparently thinks it is. Where do we get these wayward lovers?