Memento Mori

We all wonder whether
tonight’s scalpel will ease the fluid
building on his brain
or be metaphorically dull,
offering neither relief nor reprieve
for this man laying dying.
Well, not dying today --
(pray not today) --
but dying more quickly
or at least more evidently
than the rest of us in the room.

This formidable man, formerly with silver mane of hair;
This man of four successive wives,
the last fiercely attending,
sleeping beside him each night in hospital room;
This man whose days & nights once teemed with jazz,
international travel, political organizing, philosophical meandering
& (I’m guessing) the company of smart, sexy women.

His mind now foggy, his memory a blur,
I offer to read poetry aloud.
Pick one, I say, not handing him the book of
pastoral contemplation I brought
(it turns out those pages are full of death,
the possibility so palpable in the room
I don’t want to lend my voice to that theme,
not for a man doggedly clinging to life.)

Instead, I hand him the only other book of poems
in the room: his dog-earred copy of Sharon Olds.
He lingers as he chooses: I am not sure if
he is dazed or intent.
He hands back the book: an exhausting effort,
pointing to a poem entitled Sex without Love.

This man, thirty years my senior, is flirting
from the bed that cannot cure his cancer!

Flirting? Perhaps. But more likely: declaring life, not death.
His selection double-dog dares me & I accept.
I want him to believe that I am worldly & brazen
& can read life into his failing body.

Squirming in the chair beside him,
I can’t quite believe I am reading an erotic poem
to a dying man who is neither my husband nor my lover.
I’m wondering how it is I got here,
on this day & in this way
& if his wife hadn’t just stepped out of the room,
wouldn’t she wonder the same thing, too?

Yet this may be
(I pray it is not)
this may be the last thing
I do for this friend.
Who can deny a dying man his last wish?
Even if it turns out to be one of a thousand last wishes,
or just the one of one?

Like him, I refuse to take the easy way out.

Blushing, I read the poem first to myself, then to him.
Involuntarily grimacing, I am not offended,
but embarrassed and slightly titillated.
I do not want to stumble over the vivid, explicit parts –
it’s so sensual, so visceral. It is a good poem.

I cannot look him in the eye
but neither to do I stop
until the poem comes to its end
& his sigh praises me.


(cc) Karen G. Johnston

I slammed this, and two others poems (Universe in my Uterus, Renee at the House of Ruth) this afternoon at the Florence Poets Society Jan Slam in Florence, MA. I won second place and $30 -- took my kids out to dinner at a new burger joint (Sparky's All American food) in Northampton with excellent fries. I wanted a veggie chili cheese dog; they had the veggie dog & the cheese. They had chili but not veggie chili, so I had to make do. Bummer. But, then again, they didn't have fritos to go under the chili, which would have recreated the amazing chili cheese boats from the days of watching my brother's little league baseball games back in the early 70s. Damn, those were tasty...