Needles plunge. Consultants come and go.
Today, leukocytes are easy to locate;
tomorrow, next year, they may sink below.
Taxol drags at her heart. The drip, so slow,
eases on, flowing down her hand’s tight veins
as needles plunge and consultants come and go.
The nurses praise her husband’s constancy, though
he’s uneasy, each treatment — can he sustain
her, tomorrow or next year, if she sinks below?
The ward’s fish flit through a new tank, even though
the fatigued walls sag with the same diseased paint.
Needles plunge. Consultants come and go.
She still submerges, cold, forlorn. She knows
he’ll ease her to a surface of hours, days,
tomorrow. Next year, she might sink below.
Bloods, infections, bruises, vomit, soothing low
tones, fish rising in an easy ballet:
tomorrow, next year, all these could sink below
the needle’s plunge. Consultants come and go.
