Cancer is Relative

Why do you haunt me, dead man?

We both, like those in Five Bells, pushed pens:

yours with precision. Unlike the other chief,

you subbed gently, showing the rookie

where they misstepped and stumbled,

coached, rather than humiliated.

In the pub you silently sipped your vodka,

indulging in one last forbidden fruit,

the burning one now turned to ashpast,

like most of your voicebox, a hole for air

in your throat, a square of cloth a corporal

over the altar of your breaking body.

You opened your home and beers to friends

as your children played in the backyard.

Your soon-to-be widow stopped your youngest

from pushing you into the pool, lovingly

tried to explain that no, he’d done nothing

wrong, just that Daddy was sick.

On a training shift on the subs’ table

you threw me an article positing

a link between families and the big C.

As usual, typeface and space required

were indicated. I came up with a cracker.

I counted carefully. It fit. I dropped it

in the Chief’s tray. Your alter-boss, Choll,

would have snorted, sworn, thrown it

right across the table. You read it,

stood up, walked round, leaned in

and said, It’s clever, but maybe for families

involved, a bit hard. Have another go.

Kevin Scully