Yes to removing the mass tissue in your neck that hardened
like the years between us, & yes to still loving your oceaned body,
with its bald head, new port & drain from surgery—

Yes to not drowning in what-ifs, because yes, we are worried—
swimming in tests of blood cells that are white & multiplying—
but your eyes never once change course from their crystalized blue.

Yes, especially, to knowing a disease is not the depth of you.
Yes to tear-soaked nights praying it doesn’t spread, & yes
to studying cycles of chemotherapy, dreaming of seawater & sand.

Yes to walking with you until this summer’s end (if it should be) or meeting
again on another shore, tasting the salt drifting from our bright eyes
down the coast of our smiles, your hair long again & wild in heavenly air—