She smiled at me,
Her fair and swinging
Straight hair hanging,
And wrinkled up her nose
Like a white soft rabbit
Culled from Alice.
She talked, an earnest seventeen,
Of God and Beethoven,
And pointed to her scar
And how it wouldn’t show
On next year’s beaches.
While I, who knew the worst,
Forgot my pretty speeches
Lest the bubble burst
And gaily smiled at her instead;
Laughter smothering the dread.
2 comments:
I thought for a moment you had written a poem about your wife, perhaps when you first met her. But as I read more, my heart sank and my eyes filled. I'm sorry for your pain but relieved that Lynette has you to care for her.
Lynette was the first young person I met with cancer. I was a medical student at the time. I wrote most of the poem 40 years ago, but I have recently reworked it and I'm still not satisfied. I shall have another go at finishing it.
She died a few months later.
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