Ben Reuben
White cell desert
Discarded with the dog ends and the sharps,
To the surgeons we entrust
The morphine of our final days.
Here is my body.
Lay me down on the white sheets of winter
And improve the remuneration of the nurse
Who rolls me onto my side.
Here is my mind.
Sit me up in the wheelchair of spring
And walk me slowly
In the garden of the care assistant.
And it is here where my skin will burn
In the summer of expectation
Of an autumnal judgement.
In chemo I cried for the smoky days.
Lost the struggle and was swept from the shore
Of my white cell desert.
Page(s) 55
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