“Five Months Later”

14482003_1153777838002384_5947796868823321163_o

Five months later, and you’re still dead
As if it were still funny, still fresh, still new
Five months later, and the demons have spread
As if I let my guard down, as if it were still true

Five months later, and the well-wishing has stopped
Already, as if your death is passé
Five months later, and the world has gone on
But we’re trapped in the hold of that day

Five months – and the careless things people say
Only multiply: “you’re so lucky, to have a home,
A place to stay” – when home has died
And we saw it ripped from her body with our own eyes

09/29/16 – Emma Dumitra.

“September”

14525021_1150599071653594_3974696084212480109_o
Chestnuts now litter the ground
Spaced apart in elegant brown
Curved and shiny shells unbroken
Like the last words that between us
Were spoken – dry
Dehydrate slowly as winter nears
This time without you

Where you lie garnished
With wilting roses and – to my surprise
The lilac bush we gave you sweetly,
Long ago thought dead, now tries
To bloom again

The yellow leaves fall always from the sky
Continuous in motion while you lie
In elegant, dry stillness fade
Leach out of life like chlorophyll from leaves
Impervious perhaps, or simply far
From here, your oldest daughter
While she grieves

Written September 2016, Emma Dumitra.

“Chemothera-Putrid”

WhiteRockbyMom

It’s not like in the movies

Composed of questions, quests

Dramatic bald heads nodding, bobbing, suffering

Projectile vomit and finite deadlines.

It’s quieter, wispier, more uncertain

Like those dirty flakes we once called hair

You finally shaved off slightly.

It’s sore palms and painfully cracked skin

It’s gaining weight when the steroids do you in

It’s quality of life, and it’s chemo

When venom in your veins is better

Than your own cells.

It’s watching you melt like a candle

As the poison slowly fills you intravenously

Feeling the dread and the gorge rising

When I exit like a coward because that’s not really you

It can’t be.

It’s jokes about stool and all the colors and consistencies

We could apply to oil pastels,

But this is not art

And on good days it feels like we’re faking it all

And bad days are hell, but we smile.

When I hear you cough my mind jumps to your funeral

And health class reminds me of the day you will die.

Thera-putrid are those days when your door is closed

And you sleep the hours away, and it’s almost escape

And I’m grateful for how much you hide from me

But even forgetting makes me ache.

Written September 2015, Emma Dumitra.
Photo Credit: Nana Dumitra.