Stage Four Poem by RIC BASTASA

stage four is of course, sure death.
the nerves are swerving and convoluted to utter disbelief.
he says, four months more, no bonus, not bogus, not
a leaf of lettuce that you play with your teeth or tongue
no figure of speech can save this inevitable crashing of cells.
stage four, spell four, i will spell it for you. There is no word
to start with about tomorrow. There is no tomorrow. It is clipped.
And cut and set aside. There will be some discussions for a while.
Where to leave the pen and paper. And the basket of daisies
and glossy red apples. The green ones have to be give away
as early as the sixth day of our agony. Less pain you want it?
A glass of clear water. Pills and pins. Touch my hand.
I will tell you i love you (20x) but it is late. The sun at the port
is setting earlier than expected. The steamer has arrived.
No it isn't. It is an old wooden boat docked by the side
of a very old river. Shadows. Darkness. Ripples of the river.
I hear the sound of the black bird. It is your name now that is called.
A hand with a candle. I see you taken,

What is important now is the peace of this bed.
It will be empty at the nearest hour. My love shall never die.
I whisper it to you. Closed eyes. Another journey and then
That man in the dark, drives us away and takes you.

To the other side of this lonely island.