Ironwolf

Alive

Uncle Jimmie had a hunch that cancer,
the rat that gnawed away behind his ears,
was part of the warm earth and silver woods
and snowy meadows in the mountains. Surgeons
stabbed at the rat: scalpels sliced away
the ears one April dawn, as catbirds,
perched in the morning treetops, mocked the calling
of cardinals. Stabbed and missed—the rat survived.
The day they clipped out Uncle Jimmie’s cheeks
and upper lip, he pondered artichokes,
truffles, and a certain Tuscan wine.
And when they snipped his nose, he wept for roses
and the fresh sea breeze—and thought a while, and played
his hunch: Stop cutting, Jimmie told them, let
me go to earth and snow and silver trees.

But the rat kept gnawing, and Auntie Flo went on
reading St. Paul (The works of the flesh are uncleanness),
and praying, and paying the bills—and the surgeons huddled,
frowning at Jimmie’s want of reverence
for faith and modern medicine. With skillful
suturing, they lifted out his tongue
and dropped the wagging muscle in a pail,
and Uncle Jim, who used to murmur quatrains
out of Omar, kept his peace. Still, his eyes
kept pleading: Stop the cutting, let me go
to earth and silver trees! But Jimmie knew
the rat would work in just behind his eyes,
and Auntie Flo would go on reading Paul
(They that are Christ’s have crucified the flesh)
and praying, and paying the bills—and the pale blue eyes
would have to go: one Sunday after Angelus, Jim began
his dark forgetting of the green
wheat fields, red hills in the sun,
and how the clouds drive storms across the sea.
Some Monday following, a specialist
trimmed away one-quarter of his brain
and left no last gray memory of Omar
or snowy fields or earth or silver trees.
But Uncle Jimmie lives: the rat lies quiet now,
and tubes lead in and out of Jimmie’s veins
and vents. Auntie Flo comes every day
to read to bandages the Word Made Flesh,
and pray, and pay the bills, and watch with Jimmie,
whittled down like a dry stick, but living:
the heart, in its maze of tubes, pumps on,
while catbirds mock the calling of cardinals,
artichokes grow dusty green in sunshine,
butterflies dally with the roses,
and Uncle Jimmie is no part of these.