Chemo

A Poem, Leaning into Winter

Chemo

Sundry sounds:
the blinking boxes wheeling to the roar
of shuffling feet upon a sterile floor
in endless rounds
and rounds and rounds.

In a chair,
beset by this cacophony of death,
I turn back to the window, hold my breath,
and stare
and stare. 

Beyond the glass
the life retreats from berry, leaf, and bough—
the tingling in these limbs suggesting how
I too will pass.
I too will pass.

From my skin
the plastic branches reach their metal tree
to test if mine or its malignancy  
will win
within.

Still outside
in praise of change the flaming ash leaves burn
and fall to earth in hope of green return
when all is dead,
when all has died.

The wood stands
naked like fading iconography 
whose flecks of gold and crimson offer me
His feet,
His hands.

They give
the only answer to the plaintive why
in every agony: Unless you die,
you cannot live.
You cannot live.

Rowen Leaves Laid around Hole, Andy Goldsworthy (1987)

Special thanks to Olivia Marstall for lending this her critical eye. Follow her here.