I revisited this poem I wrote when I was in chemotherapy and shared it with my friend.

Like a candle

I have this quiet inside me that nests in between

my muscles and metastasizes – finding every corner,

ligament, merry go round joint and blows it out

like a candle

I collapse, flutter like a broken bird on the ground

I cannot see your tiny hands that can hold my life

still – better than a bookmark. The days tiptoe past

me not looking

pulling their hoodies tighter, averting their eyes – maybe

they are afraid to become involved. Maybe it will

violate the rules of time. I flutter on the ground

trying to re-imagine

you after birth. Before I only had sparks from your mother

Now I must sew eyes and mouth and hair into a postcard

that I can carry with me when the quiet moves to the lowest

levels of cells

This is the gift of cancer: A shy lover who comes into your house

whose memories become shared. Who, after years of living

together, has the ability to watch you on the ground with an

eye of disinterest.