for RYAN O'NEAL and family/friends/fans of FARRAH FAWCETT...

[***dear mr. o'neal - i am not 'wishing' miss fawcett further pain - i am publishing this for you and her family/friends/fans - the pain never goes away from the survivors - it has been more than 30 years since the death of my mother - and i still grieve...perhaps what is 'meant' by ever-lasting life is that the memories of people we cherish never leave our spirits. i am sorry miss fawcett has been struck by this horrendous disease.***]

I heard my mother sentenced to die...
from a man of ethical profession
Who was not my father

In a hospital hallway
where blood is never allowed or seen
Because blood
is associated with suffering

And there is no suffering here
Because it is overcomeby clouds of ammonia disinfectant
Where nurses with needles
inject mindlessness on demand
to ease you into anterooms of death certificates
waiting to be filled out

By supposed healers
Hiding behind gauze masks
In this special place
where my mother was sentenced to die
so matter of factly

by a man who was a surgeon
Who would see none of my mother’s tears
When she would stare in a mirror
Touching the puckered purpled skin
where mastectomy scars would never heal
And no one would ever seeas her fingers traced memories
in breathless moments of warm lips
that has vanished with the cold stainless touch

from a stranger slicing away her life’s supposed beauty
Breasts removed by a man
with words that strangle all hope in the malignancy of existence
And I heard my mother sentenced to die
From a man of ethical profession
who never witnessed my father’s face
while he lifted my embarrassed mother
in his arms from off the foul-stained bed sheets
No longer able to control herself

in that phase of remission as transient as day-lilies
While we stood around in hushed reverence
as if we were already in some church at prayer
Hearing only my father’s voice of helplessness

Swearing to us that cancer
Is now a tarot-card of recurring curse
And I heard my mother sentenced to die
From a man of supposed compassion who never asked
Why she always felt so cold
And never saw the sweater she always wore
Even in the yellowing of summer
As we watched her shrivel
From the chemicals and radiation
Into the bald hollows of her dull eyes
Which never saw
My father’s dim reflection ever after
In a mirror where his fingers rubbed
Over-and-over touching that sore place
As if he could bring back breathless moments
Long after the final passion.