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Sport 31: Spring 2003
Six weeks
Six weeks
Six weeks was all that remained of my life.
In apartment number three I farewelled
the young Prince William who had visited
bringing a plastic bag of half-finished cigarettes.
I considered restarting the habit in my last days
but decided against it, based on the smell.
Walking along the beach with everyone
I ever knew, I noted a number
of sweet, humble cottages, went on ahead
(past even my mother, who led the procession)
to be alone and sob for the fact. I felt sorry
for my friend: to lose first her son and then me.
What was it? you asked in the morning,
what were you dying of? and I felt the word swoop
into my mouth the way a bird flies across the sun.
Oh, it was cancer, I said,
and folded my arms over my chest
like the heavy wings of an angel.