The Terminator Poem by Beatrice Evans

He said the word Cancer
like a spit in my eye,  
a spine chilling word that scrambled my legs;

He was looking down my cleavage 
and I began thinking 
magic, sixteen double d's
liquid mind already burning my little bra,

But wait..
He was talking..
mouth like a megaphone.
pink lips a bugle call.
Tumour.
What!
"Terminal? "

How long I ask the terminator;
' Four months-he sighed or about sixteen weeks.'
© B V Evans 2014