An Autopsy of Dying in Which a Miracle Lives in a Famished Tumour

life is not measured by the number of breaths we take,
but by the moments that take our breath away

—Maya Angelou

stage I

[relatively soul & innocent. what is terminal begins with a feel of nothingness]
hold this body —
something haven. something donned & dighted in the genesis of breath.
isn’t she a fine silt & the strand of a godly ooze? how jubilee it is, naivety
steeps in & makes her (w)hole. nothing seems radical like the shape of the
unknown.

stage II

[prostate gland but localised. lymph nodes invasion & smokes of piping hope emerge]
& there’s war:
body carapaced in self-weaponry. fighting ghouls in apertures/ skin in
her apparel appetency/ how brave to sheathe & not hold the scars to
ransom. if therapy owns this body, how come the soul doesn’t breathe?
the wound stealths open/ & healing crackles at exit. do you not know
a surgical blade is a fierce lightning in apparency than prostatectomy?

stage III

[seminal vesicles. tumour is a fighter & the body in acute soldiery. survival in question]
in this poem —
tell the body in therapy, of home. country where family is
whole. & grief bleached not to savour the blood. hold the lesion
in penury. the despair flickering in retention. life knows nothing of
housing a soul. light the flesh again & know frailty is nothing but
divine. to bite the dust is to ascend & to ascend is to bite the dust.
what’s it about escapism? just to render gently, humanity is flawed.

stage IV

[metastasis of distant organs. figurine of delicate & dying. longing & beholding]
if a miracle:
hasten to anneal this body. what awaits itself is a miracle. say, it’s
just a fragment of time. even nature traces the sound of silence.
what do you do with grief than to lay it to rest. anxiety respires
& the river sniffs in the drowning feet. but sometimes what’s
left of nature is patience. her claws of longing: the sickbed &
the rising of sunset. the graveside, flowery songs & the hour of
silence.