Outcast Devil

cancer poem

We have three children.

Somewhere, encoded deep within each of their cellular structure

Looms a dormant disaster.

A code of catastrophe

awaiting its own particular ignition.

Detonation date, TBD.

Tomorrow? Probably not,

but can’t say for sure.

Next week? Same story.

Next month? Next year?

Your guess is as good as mine.

And still, it lurks.

We are learning that this outcast devil,

made known as too many bruises, abdominal pain, and who knows what else;

is best kept closer at hand.

We had it flung too far out.

A shadow.

A bad dream.

A hypochondria.

Now we know that it is our own devil after all.

It lives here with us,

So best to keep it close.

I will make it breakfast in the morning and try

to believe that the full light of my attention

might make its spark lazy, languid.

Something no good for this go-round.

Maybe it will leave our three for some other fate.

If I can keep my mind clear on the danger

always at hand

perhaps it will never have to remind me again of its singular power over me.

Over everything we’ve ever made.

I don’t love being afraid.

But I wonder now if fear is a better choice

than denial.

I’m not sure.

But I don’t want to risk that too.