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.