Breath

My father in his hospital bed— sweating, disheveled—
swears, "Three different doctors, three diagnoses.
Could be a goiter, pneumonia or my heart."
His skin claims the pallor of the dead.
"One said he saw blood in my lungs.
The others disagree." He mocks his symptoms,

pretends to gasp, but even in pretense
his lungs refuse to fill with air—
wheezing half-breath like a sigh of resignation
from a schoolboy slighted by the prettiest majorette.
"Whatever it is, I can't take two steps
without running out of breath."

The nurse squeezes his I.V. bag, her coarse fingers
coaxing antibiotics, something unpronounceable
to part the fluid in his lungs. He shifts, frowning,
closes eyes as though afraid. Eyebrows
pointing downward form a funnel to his nose.
"If I had my way, I'd be out of here come morning."

The nurse shakes her head— wearing a look
of condescension & concern that reassures him:
"Leave now, you might as well
hang yourself with a rubber band,
seal your throat with Superglu,
smoke a cigarette the size of Texas."

 

 

 

 

I Hate To Be Trite, But...

I keep telling you, "No need to worry;
It'll all work out." X-rays showed nothing.
Bone scan hinted at hot spots,
few enough they must have been
arthritis, sinusitis, with
follow-up tests a formality.

You're frightened because
someone said "cancer," &
the syllables linger in air:
unsolved equation in chalk
on a board. I swear,
"It's fine really," promise
you'd get through it even
if the worst were true.

I offer no explanations,
no theories on why you feel
betrayed by god, medical science,
users of the word 'maybe.'
You've heard enough jargon
from lab technicians,
radiologists.

You want the common words
anyone could speak, &
hands that brush aside tear-
moistened bangs.
You embrace what I say
like a lover forgotten,
finally reentering your life.