Some days we dream
and weep cancer, talk and write it, 
carry it with us to the grocery store, 
propped up in the back seat like a gaunt old man.
We put cancer in a high chair and feed it
scraps from the table, nominate cancer
for president because it is even handed
and blind. We find cancer all over
our hands when we wake in the morning
and we cannot scrub it away; we kiss it goodnight
when we turn to each other, put out the light. 
We see cancer in the center of the drawing, 
a curving vase, the rest of our lives 
twin shadows on either side.

 Better days 
we cannot remember the word from our dreams 
and once we get busy, it disappears.
There are pink roses outside the front window, 
geese honking on their way to Puerta Vallarta 
where they plan to gamble and drink green liqueur, 
our cold toes poke each other playfully under the covers, 
grandchildren stagger about on newly vertical legs,
and the rain plashes softly around the cradle of our sleep.

In the drawing we see two matching silhouettes
facing each other with abiding interest,
the shape between them
nothing but shadow,
dark air.