Neither of us good
at small talk, we drove through the
desperate silence
settling on the
meaningful soap opera
of politics as
distraction. The night
before, I woke to your tears
at 2, both of us
dislocated from
dreams of a future that had
been rewritten in
the illegible
scrawl of a doctor's pen. They
measure tumors in
millimeters and
leave us to measure the
consequences in faith.
—Martin A. Bartels
at small talk, we drove through the
desperate silence
settling on the
meaningful soap opera
of politics as
distraction. The night
before, I woke to your tears
at 2, both of us
dislocated from
dreams of a future that had
been rewritten in
the illegible
scrawl of a doctor's pen. They
measure tumors in
millimeters and
leave us to measure the
consequences in faith.
—Martin A. Bartels
I started this poem about two years ago when my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was struck by the obvious irony of the horrifying consequences of a tumor measured by a few millimeters. I finished the poem--written as my own concept of a "layered haiku,"--when I could face the topic again.
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