Wednesday, April 7, 2010


From the Poetic Asides blog: "For today's prompt, take the phrase "Until (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and write the poem. Possibilities include: "Until we meet again," "Until tomorrow," "Until monkeys fly out my butt," or even "Until blank" (why not?). OR From fellow PAD poet: "Write a poem where food is central. It can be a food memory, a favorite meal, what happened at a meal or about the preparation of food, who is gathered to eat."

I decided to incorporate both themes since I’m an overachiever.
This is by far the most personal and autobiographical of all of the postings so far. I hope you enjoy it.


until i knew

on my mother’s 62
nd birthday
they promised to remove her feet
something about circulation
and infection and blood sugar
hell, she’d already had a toe removed
that’s why she was in the hospital in the first place
and i know them doctors could read
her chart
it was right there in plain sight
but i guess with all of them degrees
and what not
they couldn’t see what was obvious
to everyone else in the room.

losing your feet on your birthday
ain’t no birthday at all.

there wasn’t no cake
no ice cream
just cards flowers balloons
that were like, fake cheery
happy birthday! (old bitch)
(you in the hospital.)

the balloons and flowers
were supposed to take her mind
off that metal box with no bow
just beyond her feet
at the end of the bed
you know, the one that housed
her chart
like it was precious or fragile
or something that needed protection
but we already knew what it saidit didn’t take no fancy degree or nothing
to figure it all out.
like yo, you need yo feet, right?

so i read the chart because i can
and just because i dropped chem 1a before the deadline
didn’t mean that i couldn’t figure out what was obvious
to them doctors in the coats.

mama was dying of cake and ice cream
but see it wasn’t just cake and ice cream
she had also been diagnosed with pork chops and gravy
rare steaks with fingerling potatoes
years of coke, you know, cola,
like gallons of that shit,
intravenous and what not
oh
and bacon and eggs and pancakes
baby, a denny’s grand slam
and butter.
mama was dying of butter.
she even asked the lady doctor
if there was something they could give her
to put her out of her misery.

the doctor just looked at her
then she looked at me, you know, a little perplexed
i figured she knew i had opened
the metal box with no bow
and she leaned in ever so gently
as if all of her training had prepared her for this very moment
and softly said
baby, you’re not dying.

well, admittedly this is a little bit of news to me
since i took off two months from work to be at home
and the second day i’m there, like on cue
roll the music
old mama can’t breathe
is doubled over
you know
gasping for air and
if i hadn’t seen abject terror before
well, there it is.
the ambulance comes and whisks her off to the hospital

hours later
when everyone is out of the room
you know it’s just the two of us
mama tells me
i just wanna die.

so
i get on board because
i think
old heifer is doing exactly that.
you know
dying.
yet you can imagine my surprise
when dr. malpractice
shares, “baby, you’re not dying.”
she even said, you could live for another 15 years.
easily.

well, like i said,
i did drop chemistry in college
but i made it through physics in high school
and i know there ain’t no equation or formula for this
but it’s common sense to everybody i know
you can’t be fabulous with no feet.
nah
it can’t be done.

so dr. malpractice leaves the room and
i look at my mom and she looks at me
and i know in an instance
the same way that i can decipher
pages and pages of doctor scribble
in a metal box with no bow
on her birthday
that this is it.
these final days are
on her own terms
her choices
her life.

on my mother’s 62
nd birthday
there wasn’t no cake
no ice cream
just cards flowers love
understanding knowing sadness
and that metal box with no bow
just beyond her feet
at the end of the bed.

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