June

Here are two poems, but the same. The first is an earlier version. The first is more condensed, while the latter was expanded upon. I thought some choice words in the first may create images that distract rather than help with the flow of the poem. Maybe I'll keep working to come up with a final version.


Don't think of the road ahead,
you'll walk that way soon enough.
Ponder the sicks caught in the now
over lunch - full plates, cold Sprite;
dig in your fork, plunge in your straw.

Our cousin's virus ran amok,
but that will all end soon enough.
And the uncle, lucky man,
snipped the cancer in the bud,
knock on wood, the curse is broken.

Would you like a cup of tea?
Have the last of the custard tart,
shrimp dumpling, chicken feet.
Morsels of flavors on your tongue
burst in the mouth, fill your belly.

Don't let them plug me with the tube
depriving me all pleasures of scents.
Shoot me then, while I'm still breathing,
before feebleness reduced me
to a diminishing of nothing,

Handed on a platter, all skin and bones.





No need to look at the path ahead,
you're already on the way.
Think of the sicks caught in the bind
over lunch - full plates, cold Sprite;
dig in your fork, plunge in your straw.

The cousin's seizures ran him down
but now at last he's on the mend,
give or take six months or less
to smooth out the l's, uncurl the r's
back to their straight and proper rhythms.

And our uncle, what lucky man,
unlike his mother and his brothers,
sister and cousin in rested peace,
snipped the cancer in the bud,
knock on wood, the curse is broken.

We should drink a cup of tea
in honor of family and good health,
eat the last of the custard tart,
empty the plates, down the pop,
savor the flavor in our mouths.

The day may come to us yet
when stale air and tap water
are the only food we taste,
and what is left of life
is fed in slow, narrow drip

Straight to our bellies
in bodies slaved to the bed,
all skin and all bones.