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.
James Tolan is the author of Filched (Dos Madres Press, 2017).
Date Published: 2017-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/mri