His Cancer
A dead
apple drops, lodges itself
inside the body.
Next morning:
grackle outside the window, dog
asleep in the closet, dobsonfly rising from
the bottom of the Susquehanna.
Those contemporary love poems
you were so fond of leave you
in another place: mud banks, abandoned
lots, airport restaurants with their cold
coffee, whole bodies stashed in
roll-away suitcases, what
Mel taught you about birds, how
when it rains they
never leave the ground.
Remission
Two summers after Mel’s death, the sky
darkens just the same—a cold, mildewed shawl
draped over the earth’s shoulders. A far corner
of evening is left exposed. Here skin
is worn so thin that the clavicle has breached,
coming up for oxygen, a chance
at redemption, sheer curiosity.
I love the “Those contemporary love poems
you were so fond of leave you
in another place: mud banks, abandoned
lots, airport restaurants with their cold
coffee, whole bodies stashed in
roll-away suitcases” very nice work.
Justin. This is a wonderful set of poems. I like how they play of each other.
as a curious and cancer survivor I just had to read your poems. remission is such an iffy thing, you capture the end perfectly with the exposed clavicle, still striving for air. you have left your mark on my heart!
i just did or so i thought. makes me wish i could write poetry.