Shadow monsters are all I have.
Imaginary Rorschach blots
to understand the thing.
I'm too far away to examine
your x-rays or
speak to the guy that saw it lodged in you.
My friendly enemy, distance,
protects me and keeps me separate.
I have articles riddled with
I have phone conversations of
We'll be positive, and
I don't know, and
The doctor thinks.
I have these moments of utter silence in
a world receded so far
I cannot hear the tiny voices
calling me back, chaining me to each day
one dinner at a time
away from the battlefront.
I have this blanket of thick dark
to burrow under and wish within.
I have this mental picture of you
and the blisters on your feet
and the swollen leg
and the hair that's gone
and the way you smile in spite of it all.