Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash
Cancer: A Paean
(for Dr. Karen Houck)
Abditive—that’s you,
sneaky sniper, taking us out
more than a hundred types of ways.
A name change per each organ,
tissue, cell you invade...bronchus,
lung, prostate, colon, uterus...
From the shade you surface
ever so often, scaring folks who
come to find under every substance,
every pigment-holding cell
on the skin, a carcinogen or tumor
they pray benign/they fear malignant.
On your A-game, you steal
through blood and lymph tunnels
seeking to replicate yourself—
metastasis—an act for the selfish,
self-centered—the only growth
for a narcissist. That’s when there’s
no controlling you...no more than
folks smoking/piping, pollution
of air/land/sea, hormones gone wild,
contamination, broken world...
In my case, bleeding/
spotting pale pink, feeling like a boot
stumped my pelvis led the fox chase
straight to your crouch behind a
baby-head-of-a fibroid and blooming
from a lining into connective tissues
though still in one body where doctors
will keep you ‘til vanquishing day...
you see, you uncontrolled-
division-of-abnormal-cells-bent-
and-determined-to-destroy-
healthy-tissues-where-they-might-
yet-be-found, we have an ectomy
that’s got one of your many names
on it and the dying hour you threaten
to bring—a surgical catholicon,
vowing more quality of life to live
with family/friends/loved ones to come,
the victory over your sting.
Legacy
(for Ola Mae Swint Dugan)
flocking in past an orange-copper sunset
family members perch on every visible
chair and begin their chirping
with a snatch at bearable lightness—
she was a wizard at business
kept her brothers’ shops out of hock
you mean bankruptcy
she saved so many right here
from being homeless
a good person, a good lady
and boy could she use the old-time
remedies—she could cure anything
from cough to croup...
the musings kept coming
and they’d go on this way, until reality
morphing to myth morphed to
man she was stubborn though, stubborn...
as a horse, say horse...
a legend...
finally gave way to the silent noise of eating
the repast church ladies kindly catered—
I don’t fact check them, so few barely
visited her, barely knew her, but
she didn’t die on that hill
so, I wouldn’t either
a short while after the call to dinner
cheers the kettle of birds, everyone of them
flies off soon as full and satisfied they’d
done their duty, but I don’t mind
waving bye at the last taking wing, I
venture out to a dark porch, sit on the steps
holding tight the treasure she left me—
a promise that behind the night
the sun still shines
you can see it if
you look hard enough—
and I do, in a passing neighbor
who puts aside Peace Lilies, Orchids,
tumbler of tea to still my shaking shoulders
in the phatic yet wordless embrace she gives
and I receive, in our caring contingency...
there’s my mother clear as day
The Three Nuns: A Contrapuntal for Voice and Canvas
(for St. Katharine Drexel and her Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament)
they tell me of
a false cross roaring in flames
on our convent’s lawn
the threats—blow them sisters
and their darky school
to kingdom come—
but that’s not
why they’re at the beach today
amor major est odio
indeed love is greater than hate
what would’ve turned one short night
into long weeks of watch and prayer
got snuffed out like a taper
heavy dark clouds showered
rain like you wouldn’t believe
thunder, lightning scattered
those who attacked us as far
away as east is from west
and left our fledgling order of teachers
for the least of our brothers and sisters
convinced even more now
of God’s own sanction
His constant presence and care
with their consent, I sketch them as they speak—
capturing the three making a job of jollity
aged eyes etched in black slants on white
cheeks drawn back in unrestrained laughter
straining white works until fabric gives
to accommodate unspeakable joy—
at the water,
patched against a sun-gilded
horizon, they raise held hands in victory
black veils like sails full of wind
sleeves like an ocean wave’s ebb
cascading down arms
billows of foam lifting hems
of water-soaked habits above shoreline, and
deliberately left unnoted by these beloveds,
grateful for years of permission to be
always one more day
and glad to adore without understanding