Writer, researcher, music lover, cancer survivor with CMMRD ("double" Lynch syndrome)

Tag: amwriting (Page 2 of 6)

radiation

we take the afternoon off work to visit the nuclear

medicine department of the hospital

and in the evening I try to access some feeling and I ask
myself

if I cry, will that help flush the radiation out of my body?

or will it just give the bags under my eyes a buttercup glow

as if my pupils had become suns

stop

I say

stop

It was just a CT scan, just a tiny amount of radiation

and you are just melodramatic

you are just a girl, not spiderman

and nothing is happening

but that’s what burns

that still, nothing is quite happening here

no going nuclear, simply stoic

script-sticking

I compromise and just a couple of drops slip through

that is all I can offer

that is all life offers of anything

just a little at a time

just a little glow

A version of this poem was published in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily in April 2021.

I am eating lunch.

I am eating lunch

I am not fighting cancer.
I am eating my lunch.
And then I am going for
a walk in the overcast
bright of the day.
And then I will go back
to the office and write
some articles. I might
have a snack and
listen to some music.
There is no fighting here.


Just noticed today is the 8th anniversary of my big operation. I’d be eight years cancer free today… if I hadn’t found out two months ago that it’s come back. That stings a bit. Here’s a new poem.

to be close

these are not tales of wanting to be close
but tales of need
tales of nothing else will do
tales of we are losing anyway
I tail off when we try to make sense
of what is happening
when all we have is positivity all the while
listening to others complaining about
the mundane, the unimportant, taking
suggestions from people who have
no idea pretending to make notes
in my invisible notebook – my no-book
wearing an invisible grimace as they speak
they don’t have to travel an hour to
talk to an expert, they don’t have to prepare
their bodies for impact, their brains for
impact, their nerves to be wracked
but we pretend that is okay
all the while wanting – no, needing –
to get away, to return home,
wherever home may feel today –
home is where I can tell these tales
before we trail off and stare into space
lost together but tied together
in the want – no, the need –
to be close.

Concave

My heartbeat makes my loose-fitting
t-shirt flutter rhythmically
over my chest. I stop breathing
so I can see the full effect,
watch the fabric
fall in, fall out.
Braless breasts separated as if
in argument, creating a cavity
at my centre. Each tiny shudder
makes me feel thinner
than I am, more fragile
than I am. Makes me wonder
what I am.
Every pound of my chest disturbs
the white cotton, reveals my
torso as empty. A trampoline
for tiny ghosts, only the bounces
to be seen. Only the tremors
of the canvas to be found, the concave
and the rebound.
I am only little,
I am only gentle,
I am only nothing.
But we keep going. One organ at a time,
one anomaly at a time.
Keep cutting it out until there is
nothing left.
What will be left of me,
in the end?
Only tiny ghosts jumping,
only a tiny heart thumping wildly
at nothing.
Fall in, fall out.

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2024 Sam Alexandra Rose

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑