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.
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