I. Interventional Radiology

The waiting-place, just wider than a grave,
contains the pain in your hand
where the needle sticks.

Your husband, full of love,
longs to escape.
Your son, just 20, knows
too much and not enough.

We want to solve this puzzle for you.
It appears there is no room left on the board.

With relish, the doctor promises
to zap with microwaves
the tumors on your liver.

The game has come so far!
So many advances!

You remind me: You bought a plot
in the church cemetery.
I bring out the holy oil,
put my hand on your head,
pray: no complications,
skill for the surgeon, less pain.
Amen. Again.

As they wheel you down
the featureless hall,
your men trot beside you.
Why go so fast?
This is a contest of years.

I stand outside the waiting area.
Down the hall, a harpist plays.
I know the words:

When true simplicity is gained,
to bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight
till by turning, turning we come round right

I walk by the medical contraptions,
I bypass the chapel, I walk,
then I wait
for what passes for enlightenment.

II. Lunch in the Hospital Cafeteria

You’d best eat lots of salad lest
you wind up in a bed upstairs.
Eat that kale and stave off cancer!
Super foods can super save you!

Minerals, anti-oxidants,
amino acids, micronutrients,
eat 5 a day, paleo, fish oil,
eye of newt, and toe of frog.

(Any talisman will do
not to fend off death
but to keep us occupied
as we wait for it.)

III. Home Again, After the Procedure

At least here, you can see the trees.
In the hospital, the windows stop
mid-wall and on the third floor
(Med-Surg) they show you nothing.
I seek a window that’s a door opening
out and away from nausea, tremors,
the fear of infection. I want you
to walk away from all that.

“People keep bringing food,” you say.
“I can’t eat anything.” That is a grief
unto itself. The blanket’s too hot,
the sheet’s not warm enough.

So many times you have covered
this a landscape without landmarks.
Ten years: You weren’t supposed
to live this long.

So many times you have covered
this a landscape without landmarks.
Ten years: You weren’t supposed
to live this long.