Cold Kiss


 John Kay

 

 

I hear dead white leaf, off key,

when he says, It's probably pre-cancerous. 

 

A dog-eared memory awakens

of hearing the word, cancer, directed at me

 

for the first time; then, losing my legs,

spilling like a can of paint, freefalling

 

through the cold architecture of death,

cold fire, cold prayers soaking my lips,

 

I find my son in a Star Trek T-shirt,

his eyes climbing the ladder to my heart.

 

We walk out, sidestepping time,

stuck with pins to this particular kiss.