MRI: For Tony
Mechanical Message Sender,
Beep… beep… beeping
Steely, cold grey — treacherous white,
Torturously taunting my speedy heart with its slow, dull rhythm.
The corridors are solemnly silent.
It’s dark outside: they've left for the day:
Backs turn on Bad news.
Here, crying in my arms, he feels so small, and I have to be
the big one, and so I'm the silent one now, which is never how it was.
His body shakes, his words are garbled, and I remind him to breathe.
I'm a soldier now, no a mother — not a lover — and it will be like this often.
Tick… tick… ticking
Treacherous, slow dull rhythm.
The world sleeps and we are awake and alone.
The phone half rings —
“It’s not a brain tumour,” he'll say,
the bloated, black balloon in my chest releases a pinch of air, He whispers and breaks, “It’s Multiple Sclerosis,”
and the black balloon releases too fully, too quickly, and lands on what still is.
“What does that mean?” I'll ask.
Means shuffling feet, quicksand thoughts, and fear.
Means the Internal Mistress Devours, and I cannot compete.
I'll kick at her, confuse her with you, wanna kick her out, Scream at her Plunge into her too hard with these useless needles full of false hope.
She steals him from me, a little at a time, and then all at once she feasts
on his passion, and there is little left for me.
Or for him.
We will hate life, so each other.
We will hate God, so ourselves.
We will learn, though, from this place, from hate, from despair, of what is left.
We will learn, though, from here, too early, the importance of what is unseen.
We are friends now, yes, but let us never say “just”
For if your body fails, I will dance with your hands, And if your hands fail, I will dance with your fingers, And if your fingers fail, we will close our eyes and dance to the beat of the same memories.
- Majy Gibboney, March 2006
Beep… beep… beeping
Steely, cold grey — treacherous white,
Torturously taunting my speedy heart with its slow, dull rhythm.
The corridors are solemnly silent.
It’s dark outside: they've left for the day:
Backs turn on Bad news.
Here, crying in my arms, he feels so small, and I have to be
the big one, and so I'm the silent one now, which is never how it was.
His body shakes, his words are garbled, and I remind him to breathe.
I'm a soldier now, no a mother — not a lover — and it will be like this often.
Tick… tick… ticking
Treacherous, slow dull rhythm.
The world sleeps and we are awake and alone.
The phone half rings —
“It’s not a brain tumour,” he'll say,
the bloated, black balloon in my chest releases a pinch of air, He whispers and breaks, “It’s Multiple Sclerosis,”
and the black balloon releases too fully, too quickly, and lands on what still is.
“What does that mean?” I'll ask.
Means shuffling feet, quicksand thoughts, and fear.
Means the Internal Mistress Devours, and I cannot compete.
I'll kick at her, confuse her with you, wanna kick her out, Scream at her Plunge into her too hard with these useless needles full of false hope.
She steals him from me, a little at a time, and then all at once she feasts
on his passion, and there is little left for me.
Or for him.
We will hate life, so each other.
We will hate God, so ourselves.
We will learn, though, from this place, from hate, from despair, of what is left.
We will learn, though, from here, too early, the importance of what is unseen.
We are friends now, yes, but let us never say “just”
For if your body fails, I will dance with your hands, And if your hands fail, I will dance with your fingers, And if your fingers fail, we will close our eyes and dance to the beat of the same memories.
- Majy Gibboney, March 2006
