Featured Poem 1/26/06

Aone’s Song

I remember how the infernal machine incessantly went, goes,
Goes still in memory, banging interminably about my head,
Finding aliens dwelling there, imps holding sway

Over my body-juices, for a little moon-like tumor grows
Causing mother-milk to flow, though no baby to be fed,
No infants, no children, no offspring about my feet to play.

And the aseptic room of white: it limits germs I suppose,
But I felt there from the nurses another lack of spread:
I felt no nursing kindness – none – warmth scrubbed away,

And no aunts nor momma near, murmuring, no sisterly flows
Of human relatedness to calm my solitude, my dread
Of death, no warm and calming humor there, no gentle play.

The other L word, life, now replaced love and how it grows;
Rather the opposite stressed: now I feared I may be dead
For that tumor in my center will not, cannot go away.

Ah, as premature milk from my breasts flows so goes
A life-plan into change – more focused now my creed –
Gene-furtherance gone from mind. Rather, forward in life’s fray!

Arrogance, injustice may not control the stage in my drama’s prose.
My mother’s milk may help the many hurt by uncaring careless greed.
I’ll tend to love and life and springtime blooms of March, April, May.

R. Gardner 1/15/06


More poems by this author

Previous     Next

Close this window to return to previous page.