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Silence waits on my schedule, Bright with invisible needles. At the cutting edge of the possible The clinical machines are waiting, The statistical spin is waiting: A white space and an outcome. Radiation. The internal probe. The deep destroyer. Igniting The brain, Burning The cancer, Incinerating Some part of my intellect. I will sacrifice For the chance of a happy outcome, Propitiating a god Who gives no refunds, Who carries no insurance, Who gives no guarantees. The actual process Will be credit card painless. Silent as bankruptcy. An action With no audible hammer, With no banner of outcomes, The first results a blankness, A disconnect, Initially truculent, nonconfessing, Mute as the uncut wire. I imagine myself, then, At the outset. Committed to the process. I am a lottery ticket Tiptoeing across the cymbals of consequence Into the mousetrap future. I imagine the first days. Some done, much more still to do. Two and two is still more than three and a half. But damage must have become, And damage, more, Must be inevitable. And how much damage? A world away from kisses, The open mouth of my outcome: Human, still, and competent, Or a maimed broccoli, Uncertain of rodent versus rabbit. Reality is no longer a sugar lump. Instead, I am walking on shadows, Never quite knowing Which shadow might possibly collapse. |
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This poem RADIOTHERAPY was first published when posted online by Hugh Cook on 2005 April 15 Friday. Copyright © 2005 Hugh Cook.
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All materials on this website can be read for free online. However, note that the website contents are copyright © 1973-2006 Hugh Cook - all rights reserved. For permission to use any of the material on this website contact Hugh Cook.
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