Suite Volunteer
by Beth Schorr Jaffe
Back, all in pink
like the day you left.
Proud, lifting your bag
with one hand,
while the other
lifts the clay pot,
the tongue of a sprout,
a pit planted together,
the week you started,
your first last treatment.
I tremble.
Your cheeks rosy—
Too cold?
No, you mouth: Chemo
I knew this,
I am Thursday’s girl
In the Cancer Suites
You pirouette for me
until your head
falls softly,
giving in.
I pull
white cotton
up and over
your body,
bubblegum wilting.
You smile,
I know for me .
Your stiffened finger,
indicts my haze of gloom,
pointing viciously to tomorrow.
Tell me
of your strange pain
deep within your fallen neck
while I turn my head
cover your feet,
the rustle of heavy starch
fills my ears,
shuts out
details of your disease—
Still, when I go home,
I have a strange pain
in the place you pointed to
when I couldn’t really look.
