ManicDDaily

Death’s Turn

How long it takes
for death to turn the stomach,
its odor as ochre as goldenseal
stopping the throat.

Unhabituated, we’re sickened, sure,
but like a child swallowing a roller coaster, gullet tense
so stretched,
we still–early on–relish the drop at the top, the spin
to our bottomless sure seat, locked guards against
our buckle.

Bitterness a supposed virtue
in the medicinal–
oh, the drama–
we even nibble
at Death’s edges, inking its stink
with a tincture of svelte shadow.

Until all those little doses climb,
like our clackety strapped cart,
to some high teeter
and of a sudden
we’ve had it up to here–
Death there–
cancer on our corner–

We want
to throw it all up–
all clots of seeming,
any empathy that even slightly smacks its lips.
We want something strong–
red wine, dark chocolate–
to take the taste–
open air,
bared arms,
time–

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Please don’t be alarmed.  I’ve had no bad diagnosis, just heard bad news of a few different friends.  I am doing a poem a day for April–this my third in three days–ha!–and I am also posting this for Claudia Schoenfeld’s post at dVerse Poets Pub about writing a poem about emotion that doesn’t name the emotion.  Not sure if it qualifies, but know I haven’t used the word “despair” in there. 

Note that I am going to have a hard time focusing on visuals this month–so they may not always fit!  I thank you for your indulgence in advance.  (As I say that, I realize that they often don’t fit!  Oh well.)