Angie Headley wrote this poem based on some prose I wrote. She was kind enough to let me post it here
.
He brings her beer, she fondles it with
limp hands, stretches – languid, adjusting
the TV to a show that makes her laugh.
Too early for medication,
too late to stop chronic pain,
just in time for a cigarette – comfort food for chemo.
He thanks God for insurance,
ensuring payment for the poison pouring
a promise of life back into her – 75/25, good odds.
Survival brings loss; breasts, hair, sex,
they don't make love, they don't fnck – she swallows pills
instead with the last of the beer, staggers to bed.
12/16/09
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem