A tiny explosion within the diagnosis:
Stage 3C ovarian cancer,
Blasts a hole in our family fabric.
Threads of surgeries and chemo
Stitch it shut.
A hard-knotted mess left.
We live without holes a few months.
New scans, blood tests.
Cancer slices a nice size gash,
fraying at the edges.
More chemo knits shut our fabric,
No longer perfect with knots, scarred seams,
A rending– bowel resection,
Rips– chemo for a bit,
You stopped, couldn’t do anymore.
The rips, the tears—too many
Too many damaged places to repair.
We learn to live with holes, rips
Fraying tears, worn places—
Until you are no longer there,
Until there is no us—but the child and me,
And no blanket left to cover
What was left of us.