THE FARM AT MANAOL

Plump green papayas
Bunched cheek by jowl
At the tip of their trunks
Like fat sisters
Huddled for a photo
Heads resting
Close together
The flat leaves
Green as their skin
Nearby the broad leaves
Of a banana tree
Shade the farmer
And his tenant
The sun beating down
On both men and trees
In a familiar grove
The farmer’s daughter pleased
With the growth of her trees
Taller than her head now
Banana and papaya trees
Scarce saplings before
Now sprouting everywhere
On this once-empty ground
“Make sure the goats don’t come”
Her quiet admonition
“We’ll build a fence around
“To guard the sweetish fruit.”

[10.13.05]




AND YET, AND YET

With the years’ accumulation
Of pounds and inches
My incessant prayer
Is appetite loss
For finale of hunger
For taste sans relish
For end of desire
For monk’s steely discipline
Or nun’s purposive will
Or a soldier’s “semper fi”
To goal alone
To victory of mind
Over corpulent curds
To cheer “finis”
To ever-increasing
Mass of corporeality
My threefold daily prayer
To thumb my nose
At meat and sauce
And yet, and yet –
Only surgeon’s worrisome news
On breasts and “mobil mass”
Has caused loss of interest
In wine, men and song

[11.03.05]


WHAT METAL YOU’RE MADE OF

“You don’t know
What metal you’re made of
Till you’re cast in the fire.”
Words of a Chilean sage
Investigator of brain and nerve
Secret philosopher
Metaphysicist
Humanist
Made curious by animated
Confessions of surgical options
By a colleague,
Wide eyed,
Suddenly made merry
By a blessing, she called it
(Half in jest)
A blessing for what it teaches
About things inside
Not nerves or cells or genes
Nor bone or sinew
But softer things
Like hope
And faith,
She cried.

[12.05.05]


NO ONE MENTIONED THE PAIN

No one mentioned the pain
Not the breast surgeon
Nor the kind doctor entrusted
With reconstruction.
Pain in myriad forms,
Nuances, intensities
Jabbing, throbbing, and prodding,
Poking and probing
Sore, tender, or numb
Excruciating, exacting
Demanding its pound of flesh.
Pain like lightning, quick and sharp
Like a branch of thorns on my side
Unappeasable, when I shift my weight
From left to right
Sharpest at dawn when I sit erect
Mitigated only
By arm and finger exercises
As I inhale and exhale
Slowly, a full six seconds each time.
Miraculously disappearing
When I pray to our Lady,
Prayer my antibiotic and painkiller
Prayer my doctor and friend.

[3.21.06]



MY HAND IN HERS

ever so softly she cupped my hand
in hers, her hand soft as rain
(ee cummings’ line crossing my mind
“not even the rain, has such small hands”)
step, careful step
(my specs surrendered)
the cold tile floor to surgery
meeting our padded feet
her shoulder touching mine
her breath warm next to mine
leaning close, feeling her power
softness and strength
in a tender oxymoron
her breath, shoulder, hand,
seeming to say,
“am here, your Lady,
always here, your Mother,
consoler and guide,
my love and grace will save you
and will suffice.”

[10.13.06]