Poetry by Drew Downs
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There is something small in
the walk, barefoot along the shore;
with crunching sand and waves
lapping the hem of your jeans.
Soaked, drying, sandy, brushed
and prepared to return to socks
then shoes, then pavement, feet
planting and stepping in time
to music produced by your phone.
I’ve put off the visit for too long
they tell me. I don’t have a good reason
just money and time and perfection
or procrastination.
She asks me the usual questions
about diet and exercise
whether I drink or smoke;
this time I find the questions funny:
Have you had a drink in the last year?
I chortle, audibly. Is she serious?
Yes, I tell her.
And she asks about cancer.
Anyone in the family?
Yes, I say. On my Mom’s side. My Mom.
What kind?
Breast and colon.
When did she have it? Particularly the colon.
I pause
Mid-forties, I tell her.
She looks at me with patient eyes.
Well, then it is time to get a colonoscopy.
Shit.
She tries to comfort me; she says
We like to test ten years before the confirmed onset.
It should comfort me to know that.
If my Mom had gotten cancer in her 30’s,
I would have been screened a decade ago.
But she didn’t
and the word colonoscopy
is just another synonym for old.
What is love but speculation?
We carefully construct our appearance
and speak reasonably and passionately;
a courting ritual so deceitful and ambitious
in its attempt to win loyalty and devotion.
And yet, it is love that enters in
behind lust and desire. It eats away
selfish demands, revealing joy and
childish giddy inhabiting even stern moments
of solitude. Our love, as specific
and anonymous as St. Valentine,
brought by circumstance, is a fragile,
eternal string, banding our fingers and
binding our lives. The love that we share
is not ours, but it is for us to own.
Today I own my love for you, my Love.
