Its melody is complicated,
always ringing out of sync.
I sit alone, like a wallflower--
watching avoiding an invitation
that twists veers down
to find a perch, before sinking.
You listen to that tune...
pain, au courant;
a song unforgettable,
before surrendering
to an unwelcomed Partner.
Same old dance...
dance-card full.
Lymphoma wrote its score
through the coarse baby blue
hospital blanket, every note
tested against the tuning fork
of a spine mollycoddled
by an unwanted tumour.
The music pulsated like a silent
disco through every lymph node,
the white blood cells thumping
to its dubstep. Chemo
remixed it -- the scratchy vinyl
of the dripping drugs
adding a new layer until the disease
banshee-screamed, howling
through the mixing deck of skin
and muscle. And, when the composition
was complete, I swear the clouds
were at the hospital window,
keen to peek at this sonic weapon
able to bring down even the sky.
