Inside this grave
womb that drums
and groans
as it takes
picture
after
picture
of my spine
I hear it
seem to say
go / you go
don’t / you go
don’t go / don’t
go now / don’t
I’m 52, inside
this calibrated tube, this
picture box
and singing machine
that will tell
my doctors if
the drugs and
transplanted
marrow have
been killing
the tumors set
on killing me
go / don’t grow
don’t / go
The droning
chant of this
temporary tomb
returns me
to Junuh at the ocean
only four
and screaming
into the waves
the two of us
charging, arms
flailing like
the fleshy swords they are
the water beating us
back before
we Charge! again,
roaring the whole time.
We can’t give up. We
have to fight, he says.
And back in we go
wild into the wake.
don’t go / don’t
go / don’t
go now / grow
grow / you
grow / no
don’t / go
don’t / grow
go / no
From Filched (Dos Madres Press, 2017). Copyright © 2017 by James Tolan. Used with the permission of Holly Messitt.