Malignant Lace

Do you recall those pegboard lacing tablets?

Smooth, uniform holes, rounded lace.
Dull repetition is what I remember:
Up, through, out, over.
Up, through, out. over.
Again & again, learning lacing & tying, but
incapable of untangling the board,
leaving behind a criss-cross mess.

That was the first image of your latest tumor,
threading its way along & through your spine.
Crimson colored, my brain has made it,
complete with plastic-encased aglets.

It poisons its way in & out,
each old vertebrae lending itself
without judgment or resistance,
holding the cord like those pegboard holes.
Much too resolutely.

Damn malignant lace.

What if instead of entwined
in the labyrinth of your precious body,
this wicked fastening festered
only on the outside?

Oh, that I could be chivalrous rescuer &
your cancer a century old
satin undergarment with whale-bone stays,
stretched & unyielding, squeezing breath,
the very life out of you.

Were it so, a corset strung too tight,
I would be your single-minded lover,
brimming with proper motivation.
Dexterous hands, nimble & eager,
pulling the last of the loosened trappings:

one fluid motion of sweet release.




(cc) Karen G. Johnston