1. "I heard the news today, ohh boyyy" sang the beatles.

Start/The Stopping


1.
my flames rise to the gulf of you.
i am the orange parachute in your black and white dream.
as my brilliance flares, your leaden tent
begins to form as skin.
my light is too slow in reaching your constellation.

2.
depression takes over
in the two minutes since you have left.
you move over me like frost.
if one hundred seconds
have wrenched blood from my heart so fully,
how will hours pass?
this minute prays for childless seconds, the time filled like ashtrays.

3.
the evidence has mounted:
a hand held loosely, by you and my wrist.
you surround me fruit-like, the rind torn away.
the pulp without shelter flows unconsenting.
the moon hits and hits
again. i trim the hangnail moon and close the blinds.

4.
there is no action kind enough to express heartbreak.
I am left
shut,
the quietest of blossoms.

Stella Padnos




......When your body shakes and your breath sucks hard and you cannot feel anything but your throat and the tears blinding, then you know: that screaming you cannot do, that anger you cannot feel, that loss you have to face. Today my father is dieing.
How is there a time limit on life? How, can a man, who is invincible, become so human with 3 words: 'I have Cancer.' And then he becomes mortal with "I have 6 months."
My father, my dad, my daddy: The oak tree to my sapling, the reason I keep fighting, the hand holder, the safe place, the maker of words 'I'm proud of you' and 'I love you'... how, how, can he have mortality? And now, how, how HOW, can I, his only daughter... how can I fit every last drop of a lifetime of love into '6 months to live'?
My world, this world, is crashing. Death is at the door and he is knocking hard, and no pillow on my head, no lock, no wish, no plea, is going to make death 'away' to his rotton place of theft... going to make him loose his hand on my father's rope. And when I am alone, then, death drops his cloak on my shoulders - the weight so heavy I feel my chest ashe and my stomach lurch. It's then alone, that I am sorrow. I am pure, solid, weighty sorrow...and I want to scream, I want to hate, I want to beat down doors and demand answers, I want to hide. I want anything, anything, but this....
I am 6 again and he teaches me how to make my belly look pregnant by pooching it out like he does, and I walk around like that all day... I am 9 again and we are having christmas, he kneels with me and sets up my race track, more excited then I to play it, his face live with delight as the cars careen around the plastic track... I am 12 again and he is laughing at my spaghetti sandwhiches but eating them anyway... I am 17 again and on my own for the first time, my frightened ears hearing his pride at my attempt and his offer of protection, always, always ALWAYS protection. My oak. My strong arms, my faith, my guide, my laughter, my dad. I am 29 and my father is going to die.