"Holding the Rope" (This is NOT a Cancer Poem)

Holding the Rope

Blue gowns sitting in lounge chair rows –
one woman taps her foot furiously –
a nervous rhythm,
while she waits for her name to be called.
I wish she would tap somewhere else.
Out-of-date magazines
collect on side tables,
while three wide screen TV’s
drone on with home improvement shows.
Hardwood floors and bathroom tile choices
seem even more trivial today.

The machine presses and folds.
It pushes on the skin like a hard kiss –
taking a picture at five different angles.
I hold my breath and pray.

The woman next to me taps her foot again.
I sip apple juice,
wondering why none of us speak.
Then my name is called
for the next room –
the next test.
I drift off to a semi-dream state.
Allowed to lie down,
I stop guessing –
stop craning my neck to see the screen.

The last table is the coldest –
so is the needle,
until it burns.
Then there is a tidal wave of tugging
and pulling.
My eyes wide to the ceiling –
I try to see how many tiny holes I can count
in the white squares above me.

Kind nurses bandage the skin.
They cover me with warm blankets.
Ice – rest – ice – repeat.
You’ve been to the wars,
said my friend Ali in England,
after my first surgery 15 years ago.
I hope this is the last body battle.
I’m done now.

The car keeps moving forward.
I see cornfields and gold turned trees
on the way home.
Behind the clouds
shines the faintest autumn light.
I follow that ray
and try to hold the rope.


Cristina M. R. Norcross
Copyright 2011
(This is NOT a cancer poem, because I received the good news today, that my biopsy came back negative. Feeling thankful. God is good. 10/19/11)