I Text My Friend with Cancer “How are you doing?”
He answers I am dying.
I can’t imagine typing I am dying,
like stating I’m finishing War and Peace.
Calendars full of treatments, ending.
Two surgeries nearly taking him.
He told me last year he had three years left—
maybe—but was fighting to see
his last child graduate.
Today, he says his last reading next month—
in a state where he used to live—
is a chance to say goodbye.
He lists all he’s grateful for. A big list,
and it comforts me. I’m a faraway friend,
and this dying man is comforting me.
I want to ask Has knowing been better
than not knowing?
It seems unbearably real to say
I am dying. To be on the other side of hope,
no longer seeing past the earth’s edge.
Do we all have that kind of brave in us?
Or is there still hope, but of a different kind?
A hope for the light at a shaded path’s end—
like those near-death have seen.
A glimpse of that shining.
That beautiful beaconing.
*
Karen Paul Holmes won the 2023 Lascaux Poetry Prize and received a Special Mention in The Pushcart Prize Anthology. Her two books are: No Such Thing as Distance and Untying the Knot. Poetry credits include The Writer’s Almanac, The Slowdown, Verse Daily, Diode, and Plume.
From The Archives: Published on This Day
- Folly Beach by Paige Gilchrist (2023)
- Crayons by Richard Bloom (2022)
Speechless
You’re comment makes me speechless, Donna. Many thanks for reading and taking the time to comment.
Oh, Karen, your poem, I am speechless . . .
You did it girl! This is such a great poem! Enjoyed it so much, since I have had cancer. Glenda Barrett
Glenda, thank you! It’s always wonderful to hear from you.
I shared this poem, Karen. It touched me deeply. My brother died of cancer and he knew when he was in his last days. So sad.
Thank you, Glenda — you’re always such a supporter of my poetry.