It came back

“It’s only minor surgery,” she said.
“I’m ppp-pretty sure we can fix it.”
Unconvinced, I shifted my eyes to
the monitor registering data.
Beep, click, scratch, hum.

I think I asked where
the cancer was located because
she used words like nebulous,
spreading and vigorous instead of
words that I had hoped for like
concentrated, small and easy.

“I thought you said it would be minor,”
I protested. Her response was long,
contained many pauses and
complicated hand gestures.

I noticed how oily her skin was as
she talked, perhaps because she
was very old, but then again, I’m no
doctor.

I might have been in the office for
4 hours or 4 weeks, I cannot be
entirely sure. She sent me on my
way with a whole bunch of papers
and pamphlets that I’ll likely never
read.

As I left, I got in my car and had a
feeling come over me. “I should tell
somebody.” But after a while,
no one came to mind.

*This poem is based off a threewordwednesday.com prompt. 

Writhe

A drop of oil into the basin.
Twist, writhe and never touch

the bottom,
where we wait like spring

or some other sensation.
Want me, need me and never have.

Drunk and harmonious,
gaping like a chasm

Or an ocean
churning with a fatal flow.

A drop of blood falls out of the water,
And you lament; wishing to have it back.

* This poem is based on a threewordwednesday.com prompt. 

I am the tree

The leaves lavish green.
I split them at the seams,
killing all they ever
hoped to be.

In a way we are gods.
In a way, jitter bugs.
Tiny and huge
simultaneously.

My big stump
is icky thump.
My feet are roots
My hands are branches.

I sing while he dances.
I bleed while he prances.
I am the tree.
He’s not quite as old as me.

*This poem is based off a threewordwednesday.com prompt. The three words are highlighted.