absorbed in a game,
on a gadget I do not own,
for which I have no name.
He kicks his heels up
(only his toes reach the ground)
In the chair beside him, his mother sleeps,
curled, legs raised far above the ground.
He calls out to her
when he hits a particularly high score
She jolts awake, unseeing,
then falls back to sleep once more.
She is my sister, in this place
where the needles preside
It heals me with an aching love
to see her son never leave her side.
© Shaista, 2013
There are angels everywhere. I saw one in the little boy opposite me. I wrote the poem half-way through my infusion (and hers), but afterwards, I took some cake across to him. A friend recently celebrated his birthday and since I was too fatigued to attend, he dropped by some petit fours this morning. Thankyou Simon! The nurses enjoyed some first (by 7:30pm they were flagging as much as I was) and then I walked over to the angel. He took only one piece, even though I cajoled him to take more, and he spoke so sweetly and gently while his mother looked on and smiled. We suffer from similar conditions and exchanged the usual wry affection, each as tired as the other, and I thought of kneeling before them and reciting my poem, but my brother was waiting to pick me up and so I walked away on a wish of luck and hope and friendship postponed. I think the little boy would have liked 'his' poem, but the cake was poem enough.
I am working on my memoir, slowly, but with great determination - the chemo/monoclonal infusion takes eight hours and I write and create and connect across time with poets and like minds - today, Tupac Shakur, who, at 18, rhymed soulfully in journals that resemble mine.
first image from The Mag