My Great Breast Cancer Adventure

Her Trees

 

A stranger, Francois,
had written
to say
how he felt
about her photos
of trees

Holy sentries
posed against
urban fences,
walls.

She held his letter
in her hand
while Nurse Joon
scurried
to her reclining chair,
checked the
IV flow.

Today she didn't
care
about needles
that scarred
her veins.

Francois
loved her trees
and had written
to tell her so.

***

Tree Portraits on Flickr

Because (every day doesn't have to be all about cancer even when you have cancer)

Because

Because the rain was coming down so
hard, and because the dog was whining,
and because there was so little time,
she took out the garbage naked.

Because it wasn't a spider bite or
poison oak like the doctor said, and
because she had a double chin,
and because she'd seen, once upon
a time, the inside of a cloud,
she allowed hope in.

Because it was Halloween, and because
the candle was sputtering, and because she
was a mother still, she put a colander
upside down on top of her head.

Stage Four

One foot in the grave and alakazam! The whole world
opens up to skin, your soul re-covered in ermine, new gray
boots with silver studs, skinny jeans aflame in Orange
Spice and Autumn Berry, a flirtation (that's all!) with

cancer. Why not paint the den, buy an Indian rug? And
how about a copper candelabra? Why not revamp the
the biz, revive those drowning dreams, churn out fifty
extra poems, pure butter. Get a new pup who'll perk up

the old one. It's magic. Heaven cavorts in the smell
of Italian parsley. Every morning, dancing on the red
linoleum while singing karaoke into the kitchen mirror
and sliding through your Michael Jackson moves you

groove, could be the next American Idol. Abracadabra!
Braver than ever before, ignoring the skeleton's boney
finger, the one that has just now grabbed your big left
toe. White ceramic flow of the bedside lamp melts into

its own light, just so, angelic. One foot in the coffin but
there you are, aglow in faithful denial, awash in an April
shower. All the right ideas have broken out of prison.
You throw some wild pastrami into a peanut butter and

jelly sandwich, get high on picking up socks off the floor.
But one sock has disappeared. No problem. Your old friend
can't have gone far. Just hunt until you find it. Or simply
wait, don't fret. It will find a way back on its own.

Ode to Autumn's Cauldron

Ode to Autumn's Cauldron

I had to post this as a file, because the line breaks don't show up correctly, when I do a direct post (unless I make the text so tiny that only a munchkin could read it).

Also, btw, in case you wonder about the "womb" at the end, it's there because in mythology, a witch's (or goddess's) cauldron symbolizes the womb:

When one sees a picture of a Witch, she is usually depicted with either a cauldron or besom or both, as there is much association between a Witch and her cauldron.  In the Wiccan tradition. . . it is the cauldron that is the true womb of the Goddess.  Its shape represents the womb of the Goddess. Because of the association between the Witch and her cauldron, this gives great power to the cauldron.

The Celts associated the cauldron with fertility, abundance and rebirth. The magic of the cauldron is the magic of the female.

The cauldron is seen as rebirth and transformation in that we go from life to death to life again. As such, the Cauldron is associated with the Crone Goddess such as Hecate and with the womb of every woman. 

Oh Glorious Day!

Walking home after
the doctor's decree
one leaf quivered
above her head,
like the memory of
of a love she'd
never had.
Sometimes
that was enough.

She wore the cold,
climbed the hill.
Another leaf
fell down to her feet.
Camera in tow, she
stopped to shoot
a close-up of its face, then
placed it in the palm
of her hand
and asked a question.

Curmudgeonly gingko,
faded yellow,
cracked all over,
dying and soon
to be covered in
piss, said only
this: Beware
false prophets.
Then turned its
deaf ear,
refused to discuss
her prognosis.
Oh glorious,
glorious day.

My Year on the Couch

When cushions
held my spine immobile
I learned to dwell
as a serpent does,
more amphibian
than woman. Pink pills
bought me time.
An inch or two or three
from done, I gripped
the remote
on my makeshift raft
and watched the screen,
unwavering. My eyes
glazed over -- beady,
reptilian, rudimentary --
unable to interpret
the truth of my location.

Now I can stand and
make my way down the hall
all by myself. It feels good
to reach the door, to
have a hand that's
strong enough to
turn a knob and pull.
I stroll outside, feel the wind,
am dumbstruck by
my neighbor's stairs--fifties,
gray, cement—skinny rails stark
next to barren stucco walls.

Back at home, I return to
the couch, sit down
in front of the fire we bought
from Overstock.com. Flames
draw me in
despite their lack of
crackle or smell.
It's so much easier
to please me now,
now that I know
where I am.

Battle Call

 
New cupboards stand
at the end of the bed.
Two matching soldiers
at my command. They
just now arrived
on a truck from Ikea.
 
Particle board, moveable
shelves, pale birch veneer.
I hunker down here in
my bunker boudoir,
preparing to spring
into action.
 
My handbags begin 

their mobilization. Stacks

of jeans and pairs of heels
form battalions. Black
and blue, red and brown,
chartreuse green--all
await my orders.
 
One breast gone,
the 
other rests
beside 
the chest
that's now a

holocaust 
inscribed
with scars. What a
warrioress
 I am,
oh yes.
 
So here's the plan:
handbags, dresses, pants
and shoes will guard 
against
the foes that plot
to raid my fortress. 
Mirror mirror
on the wall, who's
the fairest of them all?
That will be my battle call.

Seance: A Message from My Former Left Breast

Spirit is here, sends
you her love,
wants you to know
she's sorry she had to leave
so soon. But says
not to worry,
she's doing fine.

There's something
about a scar, it's fairly new.

Do you understand?
She wants you to know
it's less of a monster

than you imagine.
Stare it down.



She says to perceive her

as a loyal emissary,

the part of you
that has gone on ahead
to clear the brambled path.

Your sadness
isn't necessary.

She's chuckling
because she adores
that she no longer needs

to be lifted, contained,
restrained or redone.



At times
 she'll feel
an ache of desire,
to be
 suckled,
fondled or kissed.
But mostly
those wants
are just wisps of the past.


At the moment
she's exploring Jupiter.
Soon she'll leap over

to Mars. She maneuvers
like a hummingbird,
rapid and strong.
There's nectar
everywhere she goes,
even in the stars.

Down the Road

He's driving down the road, away from her.
She's staying behind, in a new room.
At home alone, he turns the lights out one by one.
When dawn arrives, he walks across the snow.

She's staying behind, in a new room.
Twenty years ago becomes today.
When dawn arrives, he walks across the snow.
Old rock & roll, betrayals. All remembered.

Twenty years ago becomes today.
He shovels the driveway but stops before he's done.
Old rock & roll, betrayals. All remembered.
She forgets to comb her hair.

He shovels the driveway but stops before he's done.
There are puzzle and games for her to play.
She forgets to comb her hair.
He visits a neighbor whose name he never knew.

There are puzzles and games for her to play.
She doesn't know her husband anymore.
He visits a neighbor whose name he never knew.
She turns to touch the man in the wheelchair beside her.

She doesn't know her husband anymore.
He tells her they've been married forty years.
She turns to touch the man in the wheelchair beside her.
He says he loves her still, will never leave her.

He tells her they've been married forty years.
"Oh my, that is a shock," she says.
He says he loves her still, will never leave her.
She fusses over the wheelchair man, who doesn't speak.

"Oh my, that is a shock," she says again.
He thinks of the neighbor, whose name is Abigail.
She fusses over the wheelchair man, who doesn't speak.
In her new room, buttons become aliens, unknowable.

He thinks of his neighbor, whose name is Abigail.
At home alone, he turns the lights out one by one.
In her new room, buttons become aliens, unknowable.
He's driving down the road, away from her.

The Visitation

There was this tiny, untapped part of my brain,
and one strange night as I lay dreaming, as I
lay fetal and curled and afraid (of the fury of
the woman whose guinea pigs I had allowed
to escape into my nightmare's muddy yard)
a visitor appeared--some sort of angel on
a mission, I believe, to open an unused door
(padlocked, dark) that existed in my head.

She was dressed in a gown of transcendent gold,
a billowing swirl that looked like dawn and was
sewn of insights that explained not a thing
but helped me to see that a life without answers
was fine, just fine. As I lay sleeping on the bed I
had made and unmade for so many years...so many
love affairs, mattress pads and streams of tears–I
watched my guest as she waltzed her way past
my horde of midnight tidal waves, rotten teeth
and forgotten high school locker combinations.
I observed her as she knelt inside my brain, flung
the door wide, allowed a flock of birds to burst
from within what had been a most terrible absence
of light and sky. She wove a spell, and the nightmares
dissolved into a Sunday morning revelation featuring
my beloved singing in the kitchen, and the jingle
of clean spoons being tossed into the universal
wisdom of our incredibly amazing utensil drawer.

Muted

In the twilight zone of our muted television,
we cling to a dinner of boneless chicken thighs,
red skinned potatoes, and fresh green beans.
You tell me about the broken transom line at
the job, how it almost caused Taper Dave to fall
from his ladder, mud pan in hand, and crash
through your client's magnificent picture window
(with its zillion dollar view of the Golden Gate
Bridge). But Taper Dave held on, kept his balance
despite the weight of his sizeable belly, and all
remained intact.

Then I tell you about my typical day of working
at home, my laptop now an integral part of these
ever-widening thighs. I've become a paper-pusher,
resigned to dealing with the eternal whine of repetition
and routine. I don't even need to embroider my story
with the gory details; you've heard them all
so many times before.

I've muted the television so that we can sit together
and eat, free from the roar that arrives each day
through the wires and the waves, bearing the jargon
(softened by scenes of sylvan meadows) dispensed
by pharmaceutical marketeers who sweetly warn us
of all foreseeable side-effects (cancers, suicides,
heart attacks). They bring us the news (rarely if ever
new) of a world that is more than we can handle,
juggle or endure, although we try.

Unknown to us, a close friend's spouse has today
made the choice – perhaps is making it even as we test
each bite in our evening quest for tenderness and solace
– to be taken off his ventilator tomorrow, to acquiesce
to the demands of his fed-up flesh. But we will not learn
of this heroic exit until four full days from now, after
he has already bowed and left the stage. I remember
to tell you that I tried a new recipe for the chicken
we're savoring. I used numerous, thunderous shakes of
Mrs. Dash, that old-fashioned blend of dependable
spices combined with scattered showers of lemon-pepper
and onion powder. I added butter and onions, too,
then wrapped it all in a silvery missile of foil. I
wanted you, as I prepared this meal, to know how
much I still love you, from the depths of my boredom
and the bottom of my beleaguered soul. I wanted
you to feel how I kneel in thanks, day in and
day out, before our dowdy brown evenings
spent (perhaps too often, but even so)
in the glow of Samsung's forty-two-inch screen.

Fed Ex-pectations

Listening for the song
of the Fed Ex truck,
waiting for that lonesome
tune of an engine whine
   idling
outside my door, the tread
of footsteps on the stairs,
and then the greedy beat
of my heart as it longs
for delivery.

I can see my duvet
in the clear plastic bag
that zips all the way round,
a giant gingko print,
  coming
my way from Amazon
dot com, rolling along
on Interstate 5, past
rustic barns, Holiday
Inns, strip malls, car beams, 
incumbent dreams.

I can track my box if
I so desire. Click
the links, see the route, count
the weeks, the days, the doubts
   that lead
me back to square one. Oh
Fed Ex man      I know our
crosses must be hard for
you to bear, the loads you
carry – so many things,
things, things you bring to us,
and even as you do
we're poring over
lists of all the things,
you've not yet delivered
to our doors.

Distant Friend

Eleven years
and three thousand miles
ago
we sat in rooms together
and talked
without the high-tech
crutches

Now I learn
you are on your way
to Aruba
for a short vacation,
(your iPhone response
--sent from the plane--
to my most recently emailed
"how are you?").

I look up Aruba
on my laptop
in order to fashion
a vision of you

and decide to place your image,
walking,
on a sandy beach
gazing at blue
iguanas.

Upon your return
I learn that you are
"very much
in transition
about what's important" . . .
This news flash
is explained in
shorthand
(five to seven words,
give or take a few)
"time being
what it is" (says you).

"I need," you add
(one blink prior
to signing off)
"to make some choices."
No further clues.

But you do reveal
(for which I am grateful)
that you are lying prone
upon your couch,
alone,
on week three of antibiotics
for the sinus infection
from the cold you caught
on the island.

I gush my own
abbreviated tome
(smiley emoticon)
in return: "Take lots
of probiotics!"

Then I google the question
"What (pray tell) are the choices
for my distant friend?"

Yahoo responds
with advice (about space
and time, blah blah blah).
Plus, it notes that:
"the Chinese moon is round"
and something else as well,
about a "ghostlight tango."

I try again:
to tell you how I'm craving
being privy
to more.
I want to know
for example, if you are still
writing poems. If so,
could you send me some?

You reply:
"I'm studying
spirituality instead.
It's fascinating."
The End.

You make me want to race
in circles
around ten Chinese moons,
and do the crazy fandango,
dressed
(in ghostlight)
to the nines.

Either of these
would be easier, in the end,
than this, our far-fetched
stretch from west to east

though at least you did send
that attachment
(solo photo
of blue iguana
perched alone on rock).

You tell me that the locals
call them Bleu Bleu's.
I drag this gem of detail
to my email folder
where I swaddle
every byte, dear friend,
(remote or not)
then cradle it
for future reference.

Another Poem (free verse this time)

Interior Design

Puzzles and clues
disturb your field
of vision when
when you're on a roll.
Evenings that
would've been calm
get wildly undone by
your scribblings.
You try to whirl,
sufi-like, to travel
blissfully through
everyday fractals but
rarely succeed.

Why, when you were
seventeen, did you veer
away from a career in
interior design? What
swayed you over, woman,
to the fiscal ruin
of poetry? Some
idealistic notion? Your
dreamy, roaming soul?
Poor girl!

Do-Over

another day
(a scrub jay shrieks,
in your back yard)

newly minted minutes start:
feed the cat, wash your plate; litter shit (scoop it out),
sit on toilet, read a poem

crack it open
break some eggs
scramble yolks

sun transforms linoleum, curtains morph to
cream of melted bone, feather down, angel wings,
tones of mayonnaise

another breath
you feel a breeze
of air

brush your teeth, sweep the floor, do your blog, walk the dog,
turn a knob, comb your hair. Do you care? Are you there?
Rat-a-tat-tat, listen to that, clinkity clink, fork to sink,
drink your coffee, eat a bagel, check the weather forecast.

another day
repeat the joy
(find a way,
make it last)

 

My Poem Obsession Continues (rusty though I am)

Seance

Spirit (the voice 
of your deceased
left breast) is here,
and she comes with
a message for you.
 
She says not to worry,

that she's doing fine.

She wants me to send you

her love. She says
she is sorry

that she had to go

so soon.



Something about a scar,

she's trying

to tell me

something about a scar.
Do you know what this means?

She's saying it's fairly new.
Yes, a recent scar.



Do you understand? Very well,

she wants you to know

that the scar is less of a monster

than you imagine. She is telling you

to stare it down.



She says to perceive her

as your loyal emissary,

the part of you

that has gone on ahead

to clear the brambly path.

She's chuckling now, she

wants me to explain

that heaven hath

no bras, that

she no longer needs

to be lifted, contained,

restrained or redone.



She says that at times

she'll feel a twinge

of desire, to be

suckled or fondled

or kissed. But mostly

those longings 
are just wisps
of the past.

Mostly, she has gladly

moved on.

At the moment

she is exploring Jupiter.

Soon she will leap on over

to Mars.
 
She travels near and far,
treasures her newfound
freedom. Sometimes
she
 comes back home

for a while, just to be

near you again. She says

you would love
how she can move now,
that she's even faster
and stronger

than a hummingbird.
 
She wants me to tell you
there is nectar all around,
even in the stars, and for you
to just keep living well,
even though you're without her.



She says she really must

be going now. She says

to tell you goodbye,

and for you to try

not to be so sad.

Dry Nights, Dry Nights!

Fingers and toes, hands and feet,
bedtime and cream, this isn't a dream,
I'm wrinkled and shriveled and dry.

Smearing it on, rubbing it in,
Thick cocoa butters, goo for the udders,
My soles and my palms require aid.

I take it real slow, I pamper my leather,
I coo to torn cuticles, try to be gentle.
We all fall apart. Oh look, there's a wart!

Learning Curve

In case you haven't noticed, I'm on a death-poem roll. Perverse as this may sound, I'm having a lot of fun with it, mostly because I'm playing around with formal verse and discovering that it's not necessarily as boring as I thought it would be. In fact, I quite like it. Free verse is more hip and modern, but formal verse can be just as conducive to a decently written death-poem. :-)

Learning Curve

I didn't see much death as a child.
My experience was vague and mild.
People got sick, but then they got better.
Later, however, my mother got cancer.
By the time she died, I was no spring chicken,
(but she'd been far away, like someone on television).
I'd never observed, up close, the drama
of a body caught up in that panorama
of bloody piss, sores and pus
or anything that was cancerous.
Of course I trashed and cursed
the ass who'd introduced
the crassness of mortality,
(oh thank you lord for that unreal reality).
I'd imagined cremation,
then studied up on heaven.
Did all that I could not to piss off god,
even stood on my head and knocked on wood.
But never did I touch my mother's
ashes, nor fling my little brother's
dust. Didn't even hold their urns.
But life has lessons (those vicious little turns);
thus came my awful diagnosis,
followed by a fucked prognosis.
Unexpected, to say the least.
But at last, at last,
I felt the power
of the beast.

Sonnet (Italian!) - The Right Idea

The Right Idea

When you have the right idea,
I say to myself, you'll know it.
Simple. So I drink tea and wait,
often for years, for that right idea.
It's such a relief when it finally
arrives (wearing sweats, out of the blue)
to tell me what I already knew.
(Sweats and an old shirt, so casually!)
I tend to expect more grandeur,
I suppose, from a right idea.
Not such a plain-clothed oracle.
But in one quick blink, no fanfare
The right idea can break thru rock, voila.
January, February, March. Then April.

Poem

Like a Honeybee

Okay, I admit it, I've been obsessing,
clutching at clichés: wise trees, mystic rain.
I've been waxing poetic, frantically embracing

a pseudo parental Universe, interlacing
holy rays of sun with magical visions; inane.
Oh yes, I admit it. I've been obsessing.

Spiritual messages prance in via angels, promising me
easy death, rebirth, breath turned to wind, no pain.
I've been waxing poetic, carefully caressing

the years since that lump appeared, confessing
my addiction to epiphanies: to seek the Aha! (that drain).
I admit it. For sure, I've been obsessing.

And I've become a photographer too (so surprising!).
Mystery after mystery lurks in my viewfinder. Reborn,
I've been waxing poetic, visually addressing

immortal leaves, fallen armies, mottled, torn, resting
their way through the portal, then bursting into oblivion.
Oh yes, I've been obsessing, and I'm confessing.

Will my fleshy body shift like sand, my cells all nestling
into new formation, millions of grains born yet again?
I admit it, I've been greedily fashion-hungry, dressing

myself up in every color, primping and requesting
solutions to size and hemline problems, petty and vain,
while honeybees are dying in droves, scientists left guessing

as to why. Okay, but I won't give in to obsessing about
this epithet: stage four. The beekeepers are forlorn, it's true,
and yes, we are all disappearing. It's distressing, but still I am
waxing poetic; they require all we've got, these arduous blessings.

You Are Washing Something

You are washing something.
A dirty tub. A dusty table.
A bug spattered windshield.
A wine glass at your 53rd
birthday party.  You are washing
something. A floor. A face. A
scar that is aching and swollen
and numb around the edges.
You are washing something.
The cat licks her paw. She is
meticulous. Your high heel
is lying on its side, on the floor,
on top of the pathology report.
Your hair is cut short now, shorter
than it has ever been. You are
washing something. Tomorrow
you will wash your new short
hair, which will dry faster than
ever before. Your diagnosis
is a maze of facts that are
impossible to decipher. You
are washing the mystery. Your high
heel is lying on its side, on the floor,
on top of the word metastatic. You
are washing a scar, you are washing
something.