NaPoWriMo, Day Nine, Poem Seven

I Read Poetry While My Dad's in Intensive Care


My first time on the Cantab stage.
My father in intensive care.
In less than a month he will die.

Not everyone with tubes in throats will die,
I tell myself, remembering my post-op stage.
I am back in Boston. My Mom takes care

of impending steps, pretending not to care
that I think my poetry will roll back the die,
win back the hard room, that metastatic stage.

Step off stage, careless set killed no one. No one died, no one died.