BillMcCarthy@LeaderSource.com
Breast Cancer Poem #2
It’s not like removing a bullet
in the old west, where
the whiskey-soaked doc
drops the lead fragment–
clank– into a silver tray
and says, “Got it.
You’re gonna make it
young feller.”
This seems more exorcism
than extraction.
When it’s over
they wheel you
through sliding glass
doors as somewhere
a clock starts its count
back from five years.
We step into a future
fragile as new lake ice
black water sleeping
beneath us like
a hungry Grendel.
We hold hands
take cautious steps
listen through our feet
for the crack or creak
that might tell us
the moment
he wakes
ready to draw
us under.
But all is silent.
In time our stride smooths
we no longer look down.
I notice how well
our hands fit together
no fumbling as
with a stranger.
Our grip loosens,
the grasp is lighter.
When we pause
my index finger
traces yours out to
where its curved shore
meets the cool lake
smoothness of your
fingernail, following it
to the sharp edge
going over
flowing under
until your finger
closes around mine
and we keep walking.
