365 Poems/87 Therapy (Rough First Draft)
I calmly remove the pale, pink meat
from the leather pouch. I unwrap it
from its greaseproof packaging,
and hold it in my hand.
The animal was strong, the meat
is weighty in my palm.
I move if from one hand to the other.
It is cold and firm and healthy.
I remember how I was before,
before the sickness came,
before the things that make up
the days became impossible
You appear quickly,
a spectre through the pines.
Your eyes are still cold blue,
but your legs are long,
your chest narrow and sturdy.
You are powerfully built,
and for a brief, selfish moment
I want to trade places.
I feel your large, heavy head
against my shoulder. You dip down
and lift the meat, your teeth
not even scraping my palm.
The shadow death has pushed me into
is receding, as you pad around the clearing
licking your chops. Tears come swift
and steady, but I make no effort
to wipe them away.
For the first time since my diagnosis,
I am calm and balanced. I am happy.