—Poetry by Roe Brown, Sacramento, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
LITTLE SECRET PEAR
When pears are left to ripen on the tree,
they turn mealy and unpleasant.
If harvested when they are mature,
they are not ripe. They ripen off the tree
—left on a counter, from the inside, out.
The longer they are left,
the sweeter they will be.
Like many delights, pears
can be tested at the stem-end.
A ripe fruit should give slightly
when pressure is applied to the neck.
When left too long unused, it will spoil.
The same for pear-shaped organs:
left too long, they spoil.
When pears are left to ripen on the tree,
they turn mealy and unpleasant.
If harvested when they are mature,
they are not ripe. They ripen off the tree
—left on a counter, from the inside, out.
The longer they are left,
the sweeter they will be.
Like many delights, pears
can be tested at the stem-end.
A ripe fruit should give slightly
when pressure is applied to the neck.
When left too long unused, it will spoil.
The same for pear-shaped organs:
left too long, they spoil.
TWO WORDS
Enough of my family have manifest the word
Cancer
that I’m familiar with the paralytic effect
of those two syllables on the auditory nerve.
After that word, every other attempt
at communication sounds like that indefinite
wahn, wahn, wahn noise that has no meaning.
So many poor health choices,
so many ignored symptoms and warnings—
cancer has become one of the plagues
of the 21st century.
A few days ago, I heard the second paralytic word
Oncology
the study, diagnosis and treatment of cancer.
This word is a trickster. Not as immediate
as cancer in its effect on the ears —
I found myself rolling the sound of the word
around in my head while the wahn, wahn, wahn
of the doctor explained the options open to oncology.
Somehow, when I was younger and cancer
was a word that belonged to another person,
I could find the strength to provide support.
Today (with family particularly distant, and
my life partner lost to cancer) oncology seems
a dark, uncharted cave. No candlelight
to illuminate the path. No hand to hold
when the darkness closes in.
Two words. Illusive cyphers.
THE NETHER REGIONS
The Victorian vernacular
gave names to the unspeakable
— the Lady Parts that hid
under yards of crinoline.
Now every savvy 8-year-old
can name with utter confidence
every tender part that would
make the gentry blush.
And I? A college graduate,
with adequate vocabulary
can name the parts with confidence.
But won’t.
CANCER FOR CHRISTMAS:
Not what I had in mind.
I am fortunate, among my sisters,
learning this new way to see myself.
My doctor says it’s good I caught it early.
I meet the surgeon next week
with a diagnosis of Stage 1.
The treatment: hysterectomy should
stop it in its tracks.
I had a complicated relationship
with my reproductive plumbing.
Children are a kind of immortality.
They are the joys and challenges
of motherhood. The tales of stretch-marks,
labor, delivery are the bonding stories
swapped during family gatherings.
I longed to be a mother, to carry a child,
raise a bit of myself to cast into the future.
But that was just not to be.
Instead, I have a more miraculous story
about how my daughter came to me.
Not grown under my heart, but in it;
where we were connected from the moment
she drew breath. She and her children
are the treasures of my life.
So, I have no direct relationship with
a reproductive experience: with my
reproductive parts. I am too old now,
anyway, to want to hold on to useless bits.
In the way we are taught to clean a house,
I’m ready to get rid of the organs
that never brought me joy.
_____________________
Not what I had in mind.
I am fortunate, among my sisters,
learning this new way to see myself.
My doctor says it’s good I caught it early.
I meet the surgeon next week
with a diagnosis of Stage 1.
The treatment: hysterectomy should
stop it in its tracks.
I had a complicated relationship
with my reproductive plumbing.
Children are a kind of immortality.
They are the joys and challenges
of motherhood. The tales of stretch-marks,
labor, delivery are the bonding stories
swapped during family gatherings.
I longed to be a mother, to carry a child,
raise a bit of myself to cast into the future.
But that was just not to be.
Instead, I have a more miraculous story
about how my daughter came to me.
Not grown under my heart, but in it;
where we were connected from the moment
she drew breath. She and her children
are the treasures of my life.
So, I have no direct relationship with
a reproductive experience: with my
reproductive parts. I am too old now,
anyway, to want to hold on to useless bits.
In the way we are taught to clean a house,
I’m ready to get rid of the organs
that never brought me joy.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
CANCER
—Roe Brown
Windows:
looking out
and looking in
on lives that were
and might have been
Pains:
of cuts and
of reflections
looking back with
introspection
Sashes:
of the heart
and of the soul
to help our
wishes keep us whole.
We’re
looking out
and looking in
through lives that
were and might
have been
past
windows brushed
by winds and wistful sighs
for reflections never
seen again.
_____________________
Roe Brown is a long-time Sacramento area resident. In her spare time, she reads, writes poetry, and checks up on her friends and family. She enjoys taking day trips in the region to explore different local eateries. Welcome to the Kitchen, Roe, and don’t be a stranger!
A poem of Roe’s in this series appeared in the Kitchen last Monday; check it out at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/01/year-of-rabbit.html/.
Don’t forget that Poet/Publisher Dave Boles is reading this afternoon in Camino, CA, at Chateau Davell, 2pm. Dave has also sent out a call for submissions to Cold River Press’s Sacramento anthology, VOICES 2023. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events (including info about submitting to VOICES) in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
_____________________
—Medusa
CANCER
—Roe Brown
Windows:
looking out
and looking in
on lives that were
and might have been
Pains:
of cuts and
of reflections
looking back with
introspection
Sashes:
of the heart
and of the soul
to help our
wishes keep us whole.
We’re
looking out
and looking in
through lives that
were and might
have been
past
windows brushed
by winds and wistful sighs
for reflections never
seen again.
_____________________
Roe Brown is a long-time Sacramento area resident. In her spare time, she reads, writes poetry, and checks up on her friends and family. She enjoys taking day trips in the region to explore different local eateries. Welcome to the Kitchen, Roe, and don’t be a stranger!
A poem of Roe’s in this series appeared in the Kitchen last Monday; check it out at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/01/year-of-rabbit.html/.
Don’t forget that Poet/Publisher Dave Boles is reading this afternoon in Camino, CA, at Chateau Davell, 2pm. Dave has also sent out a call for submissions to Cold River Press’s Sacramento anthology, VOICES 2023. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events (including info about submitting to VOICES) in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
_____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
