Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Two

Gail Rudd Entrekin

Figure-Ground Exercise

Some days we dream and weep cancer, talk and write it, carry it with us to the grocery store, propped up in the back seat like a gaunt old man. We put cancer in a high chair and feed it scraps from the table, nominate cancer for president because it is even handed and blind. We find cancer all over our hands when we wake in the morning and we cannot scrub it away; we kiss it goodnight when we turn to each other, put out the light. We see cancer in the center of the drawing, a curving vase, the rest of our lives twin shadows on either side. Better days we cannot remember the word from our dreams and once we get busy, it disappears. There are pink roses outside the front window, geese honking on their way to Puerta Vallarta where they plan to gamble and drink green liqueur, our cold toes poke each other playfully under the covers, grandchildren stagger about on newly vertical legs, and the rain plashes softly around the cradle of our sleep. In the drawing we see two matching silhouettes facing each other with abiding interest, the shape between them nothing but shadow, dark air.