This is not the fireworks show. This is the fifth cycle: The repetition of the repetitive. Chemotherapy: Poison then antidote. A siege of IV fluids. This is not the exploding sun. This is the therapeutic crypt, A world removed from the realms of Surfing dandelions, croissant cafes, Lipstick kisses and pipebomb hysterias. This is oncology, the world of: Relaxed, friendly, Make yourself at home. No alarm cries of dementia, No rabid chimpanzees of panic, No napalm in the marzipan. Chemotherapy is not a Christmas stocking Stacked with ink spray surprises But a stack of wet bus tickets, Moldering. Cancer is not opera. It is stuffed pillows, Constipated clocks, Blancmange without land mines. In the domain of needles Broccoli is reliably green And I am a reclining spine Gnawed at by zeroes From now until the ricebubble morning. 8888 |