CANCER

The night was bright
because of the glistening
Passover moon.
I lay there awake
listening to both my
pulse and my watch,
wondering which would
stop first,
knowing that soon
my hour would come,
knowing that my Judas body
had betrayed me,
with cancer kissing
and killing all my insides.
For weeks
I cried with anger
at this creeping way
to die, this agony
in a bed called Gethsemane,
unable to flee the tears
pulsing down the valley
of my ear, this crucifying night,
not even wanting to roll over
and reach for the cup
of water on the table,
unable to escape death,
yet slowly I hear
myself beginning to
utter my first
word, “Father. . . .”



© Andrew Costello, Cries .... But Silent, 1981