Cancer in the House
(I)
The wind blew its way through in a fervent rush
and stirred up the marred papers on the chair.
The frail curtains could hardly resist
and the hinges gave in a little creak.
Dirty forks jingled in fear.
Milk bottles fell
and poured out their remaining white.
Something rough was in the air.
Up until then, I thought time was fluid
and I would know nothing of lull.
Now I was breathing out of life
and time halted its flow.
I held my body stiff and my gaze lowered.
Then I flushed away water and blood.
My thighs were in red,
my eyes a glistening wet
as I stood still on the bathroom sill
and feigned reluctance to smell death.
Cancer in the Wild
(I)
Earth smells of dewy timber
and of freshly trimmed grass.
The pink gown drapes down the weeping cherry
on a slowly passing afternoon in May.
I healed my wounds under the weeping cherry,
wiped the dew off my face.
"Be not ungrateful to heavens" mum used to say.
Gray clouds are home to rain.
The cherry needs it, I need it too.
Hope is nested in tomorrow.
And tomorrow will be budding again.
The dew kisses the timber,
weeping cherry wears the gown.
The grass grows, tilting in the wind.
Rain comes with dawn.
by David LaChapelle
