Poetry
from ROSWELL/GREENCREST
Roswell Park Cancer Institute
Buffalo, New York
4/16/17
Easter Sunday
I.
i am the wrong dream for this
dispensary.
in the doctor’s scrawled
rx i the misinterpretation
of a spike of ink present
my bodied might
desperate to harmonize.
the cut bowel
the made-up night
a bed of tasks.
swollen limbs.
heads
[daffodils & tulips in the stone pot]
turn as i go by.
II.
it has to go through night
to get to the holiday
of release.
the body’s night is
strange with quiets
& with breath.
grains of secret
time passing, pain
like flags that flap
in dream. red
pop.
if there is a night
it is longer than a
vein
shiftless as mercury
on a pale translucent
dish.
V.
we heard the sun break
through the window &
we were OK
our floors made
timing
made aluminum
sparks
wheel-shine positing
theories
how the city
closes at easter
that life-bread
becomes scarce
things need
planning
so much sun
our deeds in surrogate
hands
don’t wake us up
VI.
a river
placed between
the ribs
vivid dreams
parties boaters
on the reservoir
of the belly
a mass of aggressive
carolers
the body’s
fear of invasion
so many ways
to dream of violation
in a cut flesh earth
VII.
the lake is a flexed muscle
sheathed in cloud.
the city twitches its
indecisive pelt.
our seven stories
change with each telling
—the doors
on the elevator.
what we take in
what we bring
hidden beneath our
coats
to our days
contraband unknown
as the future
as tomorrow’s needs.