Therapies – An Elegy

18.02.1997 – 08.06.2008

Her skull was a map of inroad scars

For doctors; their colonial quest

To graft that precious, mottled globe.

 

Tufts of hair would sometimes sprout –

Downy grass to shroud, to pall

That site of neurologic digs,–

Her body stored means of revolt.

 

Blithe and buoyant I never saw

Those cruel crab-pincers killing her.

 

Eleven, and still peeling fresh

From life its glossy cellophane,

‘Terminal’ was three syllables

Of a word I’d not collected yet.

 

Off-air, on frail hiatus days,

Words were her IV escape.

She died.

Now I dose likewise for her sake.

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