Poems

Radiate

As I stand in the hallway as a child, the image of my breastless mother laying on a metal slab surrounded by metal and painted betadine

Burnt Umber

waiting

to

be

cured

Is all I see.

Each week we perform this ritual of healing. We struggle to move, to clean, to dress, to eat. We move

at

a

snail’s

pace

to the car that must be in our neighbor’s driveway because she is too weak to climb up stairs. We leave by the basement door.

I do not remember sounds or voice.

I am useless and invisible as I watch as she is

wheeled

down

the

hall.

I look to see.

They are coating her chest with orange

Smoothing cold orange on soft

sick

weak

warm

flesh.

Metal surrounds her.

No voice, no warmth.

She is shot, each week.

She is shot full of radiation so

she

will

get

well.

Each week we bring home a weaker woman.

Each week we take a shrunken body

to

be

healed…

?

I can only stare

and wonder

Why isn’t anyone giving her a hug?

Why isn’t anyone talking to her?

Why isn’t anyone acting as if

she

is

going

to

get

well?

Breastless

Hairless

Weak and Worn

She’s the strongest soul I’ll ever know.