Listen: somewhere inside me
it’s already happened
that the first seed of my death
is sprouting. Somewhere
inside a cell has hardened into
a dagger and I can hear
Or perhaps the cracking I hear
is a dam inside me is ready to burst,
and a cluster of once-quiet cells
is turning into a shouting mob.
Listen: I can already hear
the ruckus of war being waged within
from the isles of Langerhans,
which will likely be enough
to overwhelm the rest. Listen:
there’s the metronomic tap, tap
of the brain as it chips away at memory.
Listen: the heart is pushing blood
at a rising volume. Listen:
neurotransmitters are hollering
in penultimate chorus, there’s little
serotonin in the mix, and I know too well
what their song is urging me to do.
I’m listening, asking how long,
how long is this going to take? I’m asking
not for me but for a friend. For
a lover, for a family. For what
I’ve got left to do before I can’t.
Listen. You would think
I would stop but
the least I can do
is to listen to these bitter songs.
That’s why any song spring shall bring
is more welcome now,
and summer’s song after that,
and then perhaps autumn and winter
will sing as well, and after that I shall see
what song is loudest,
and then I shall hope
to listen to more.