2004 - Vol. 1, Issue 3

"Radiation"

Window blinds slice morning sun.
Shadow and light
fall on translucent skin,
on black sheets
blending with black hair,
making material
the chiaroscuro of our relationship.
Black eyes burn into yours.
I'm black and white.
I'm colorless, I joke.
Far from it, you say. You're radiant.

You were the first told, the first
gone from this new life,
where I lie on a black table
cold as stone,
holding back my nausea,
from the drugs,
from my abandonment,
my face in a plastic form,
staring straight down,
dress pulled up,
legs spread,
feet bound,
dark ink tattooing pale flesh,
guiding the beam that burns the cancer.
I'm radiant
inside.

"Mourning"

What are the rules?
Can we start now
and be done with it?
Then I could cross it off my list:
Write will. Give away stuff. Grieve
the end of my existence.
Then I could focus
on chocolate and alcohol.
When I die,
friends could wear red
and talk of other things.
Only the friends in New York
would have to wear black.
But no Christina Rossetti endings
for those who tried to hurt me,
or simply stumbled upon it.
Remember. And feel the guilt
Like dead weight.

"Reincarnation"

In a complex world,
people see simply.
My identity has changed
with jobs and lovers.
I become someone else
by taking off my glasses.
Now I'm a cancer patient,
the rest surgically removed.