I offer this poem, “Cancer,” as a contrast to the poem from the first lecture, “I Have Dreamed a Hundred Whispers.” In my mid-thirties, I did what many people do. As I became a parent, I returned to the memories of my own parents to figure out who I was and what I had experienced. This poem is part of a series called “My Mother, My Father, My Wife, My Son.” To my mind, this poem is infinitely better than the poem from high school. Continue reading
The wheelchair waits beside the Christmas tree,
one of those cheap firs from Safeway, thin,
spindly, dropping its needles on the carpet.
In the wheelchair is my mother,
wrapped in a fading housecoat of spring flowers, Continue reading