Magi

Christmas for a patient in cancer care
is a treeless, bulbless, wreathless affair,
though hospital holiday lights glow bright,
coloring my room’s window pane at night.

This year, sadly, no time to celebrate;
I’ve always played hostess to the Feast’s plate.
So, how then, can Christmas come without me?
But it did the thought brings me misery.

Medical magicians make nightly rounds,
I close my eyes and try drowning out sounds.
Of Christmas unlived I try to foresee -
is my future on earth, fait accompli?

I dream then of Wise men so needed now
Caspar, Melchior then Balthazar, and their
prophetic three gifts - gold, frankincense, myrrh;
precious tolls - virtue, prayer, suffering.
I speak to them frankly of their tribute:
Give your Gold to those needing the goodness,
an earthly kingdom for them to hold dear.

A nurse with extra blankets stirs me awake,
with warm hands gently my bed she remakes.
I, like a present, tucked and softly wrapped;
feeling less physically handicapped.

Leave Frankincense the incense of prayer.
Aromatic resin bleed from scraggly
hardy Boswellia tree’s scraped torn bark.
With these tears, I’ll paint myself with prayer.
Like Egyptian frankincense charred to kohl -
distinctive black eyeliner of their art.

Pull on my arm, someone checks the IV,
the nighttime staff moves, once again, rouse me.
Medicinal gifts drip down in my blood,
beneficial meds to flourish and bud.

But take back your Myrrh - of death, suffering; 
its scent of embalming oil, sharp, bitter.
The reddish-brown dark dried sap burns heavy
to mask smell emanating from corpses. 
Nero’s wife "Royal Perfume" cremation.
Perform your holy oil sacrament elsewhere
for I will not be ‘receiving the Myrrh’.

Anatole rising in the morning sun,
I wish star doctor’s visit to be done.
Soon, he stands over chart, then he opined
his patient may leave, the cancer's confined.

Discharged Jan. 6th, based on doctor’s appraise,
on the Epiphany, last of twelve days
in Christmas season. I yearn to go home
and start the new year in quiet shalom.

Find my house merrily decorated,
a dinner served, family and friends feted;
with gift of "King cake" and hope bona-fide
to see the Baby Jesus baked inside.


meter: 10 syllables, a-a b-b rhyme scheme, except for dream sequences
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Author's note:  In Louisiana a ring-shaped cake known as a "king cake" traditionally becomes available in bakeries from the Epiphany through Mardi Gras. The Baby Jesus is represented by a small, plastic doll in the cake. The one who finds Him has good luck that year.

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Note:  this poem is part of a collection, to read more please see:

"the C-word"  13+: emotional, poignant, funny poems written about my experiences having cancer