http://www.albany.edu/offcourse 
         http://offcourse.org
         ISSN 1556-4975
		
Published by Ricardo and Isabel Nirenberg since 1998
She scrubs her body  diligently now.
        every part.
        Long beyond slick
        businesslike preparation
        for the work day,
        or loving primp and  polish
        for the night out,
        it's as if
        she's dealing with an  enemy.
She scours like she’s
        getting at malignant cells.
        Too late for the breasts
        but still she rubs a  rearguard action
        with soap and steaming  water.
        The doctors are talking  radical mastectomy.
        Maybe the nodes.
        Maybe even the chest  muscles.
        With brave wash-cloth,
        she struggles to kill  the beast.
"Are you almost  done in there!"
        her daughter shouts
        from outside the  bathroom door.
        That all depends on how  thoroughly
        she cleanses.
No time for thinking in  the abstract here.
        Antelope nibbles on  grass stalks.
        Lioness stalks from  thick brown camouflage.
Nothing exists outside  instinct..
        For this is the land of  the leap, the grab,
        four thrashing legs, one  whipping tail.
One's head is lowered as  if in prayer
        that no disaster fall on  it on this day.
        The other looks up from  its crouch,
        eyes to the heavens,
        as if already thanking  God.
This is the land of fat  paw on broken back,
        sharp teeth ripping into  tan hide,
        vultures in tree-tops,
        death catching up with  plan.
I miss that sickness, 
        a little here by  stomach, 
        a little there by spine, 
        the flesh ache,
        no thoughts, no love,
        just the painful sense
        that I am this living  thing
        fighting off dying.
When I'm well,
        nobody wishes me that  way.
        My good health is the  new indifference.
        They're talking to
        the man, the memories,
        the moods, the mayhem.
        They accept they're  there
        without thinking.
        They're not trying to
        cheer me back into them
Remember me
        lying in bed,
        moaning and groaning
        surrounded by sympathy,
        hugs and flowers,
        sad looks and  chocolates,
        kisses like Doctors without  Borders,
        bringing all that succor
        uncaring of the threat  to themselves.
        Misery was never  happier.
And now all I hear is,
  "You're looking  good."
        But good's not a  centering.
        Nobody lingers for good.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Fox Cry Review.
This is his first appearance in Offcourse.