Therapy

Poem By James Mills

Visiting you, weeks into your illness,
I almost passed your bed
so unlike yourself you had become.
You saw me, but propriety
decreed that you ignore
my appalled gaze.
I saw the old smile creak.
I said
that I was daydreaming in the Cancer Ward.

Chemo-ed and probed enough
you had them move you back
to lie amongst different strangers.
All believed, or wanted to,
that they were gaining
on their corruptions
but they cried at night;
a dread sound of stripped hope,
you called it, precisely.
This functional care is adequate, you said,
it makes the staff feel better.

I avoided you one day, because you talk so much-
or maybe I can't listen.
And I was in a hurry to..to..
You know I cannot remember
what I had to do that sunny day.
Or was it cloudy? I do not remember.

The tumour grows in your throat,
your voice a cracked whisper
in sullied air.
I fidget in the too-brown room
amidst bright, bright blooms
dying slow in ugly vases.

Comments about Therapy

Excellently judged, James, and honest.
Very well done, James. So easy to devolve into cheap sentimentality in poem on this subject. You keep it straightforward and honest. Nice closing metaphor.
Very sad poem. I've had my share of dealing with people in hospitals and I relate...it's very hard to keep a cheery disposition while wanting to run out. Good poem. Sincerely, mary


Rating Card

4,8 out of 5
10 total ratings

Other poems of MILLS

War Torn

Some remnant living in muscle memory
is pressed, dressed and polished each time
he marches, slowly now and with tired bones,
to the Legion for his Friday bingo.

Terminal Leave. France 1917

I spent last night in my valley.
Green and peaceful, it is.
Slow wagons of unburdened past
creak slow down berry-bright lanes.

Little Star

A zillion miles of night
caress the little star.
One amongst countless
it shines, knowing only itself,

Quiddity

Out of what has gone before
We hang by threads of destiny;
Too late to change or to restore?

A Few Degrees Of Heat

A slope of rising road
gains on the pair of us -
forcing silence.
Dusty birds and drunken bees

The Wish

Tethered to a stump of memory
a Wish lies bleaching in white isolation.
Dream winds worry its fading outline,
cracked lights shine on it - sometimes.