Here’s a poem my wife has written about me having cancer.
With you out of the house for now,
Tethered to a narrow bed by a needle in the hand, I
Lean in doorways, wondering: how
Do you always fix the boiler?
By what logic do you decide
Where all of our furniture goes,
And where do you keep tomorrows?
I know I stashed away a few
(Vague, unlikely to be our prime)
But you piled up glistening chances,
Mapping us out over acres of time,
Conjuring days out of thin air,
Sewing fantasy with future
You’d say “Let’s throw a masked ball!
Let’s disappear with nothing at all
But a camper van and a coffee pot!”
I’d smile and think myself solid,
A frame on which to spin your dreams.
Doggedly keeping the present clean
I chucked todays out of the back
With fag-ends, newspapers and tins.
Now I’d kill to open a door
And find those days you laid…
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