If I spoke any language other than

yours, I might be able to say it whole,

as a poem: non-Hodgkins lymphoma.

If my ears could hear sounds apart from years

of your wonder, I might delight in the

diagnosis: the alliteration

of poor prognosis patient. These are soft,

innocuous tones-tender syllables

in and of themselves. Were I moved by a

meter other than the beat of your heart,

I'd hear iambic run through the doctor's

order: aggressive chemotherapy.

I have tried to find a rhythm in the

in and out of liquids and needles. I

have tried to find a scheme in ups and downs

of vital signs. Surely there's meaning in

the pattern of sweats and bedpans, lumps and

catscans, coming and going for treatment.

I want to understand the metaphors in

transplants and baldness, in fevers and pain.

If I did not know so many of your

lines by heart, I would not falter over

these. I would stand up and read them aloud.