To Mom

I am the worst person you know.
I am cold, unwavering, immodest.
I force those around me to splinter,
shedding shreds of themselves,
hard pieces that fall to the floor,
can be seen and commented on.
"This is what he took from me."
"This is what I've lost."

To those that know the better me,
I am your son.

Scraping my forearms past
the corduroy of the dining room table,
my elbows prepared for the white noise
readied at your lips. Cancer.
I had only heard the word in church,
a hard-knuckled specter instigating
synchronized floor-focus,
choking out eye-to-eye contact.

Cancer. "Pray for us."
has Cancer. "Pray for us."

Those days crept like mold,
bright March days in dampdark rooms.
Some recipe gave you strength
to don your wig, to stay conscious
from morning bed to medicine cabinet;
Some recipe gave you purpose
to suffer the sickening health of hospital
and the half-smile of counting physicians.

I was an ingredient, the better me,
your son.

10 years of remission is a trophy,
hard as metal and inscribed,
"Cancer cannot compete with my care.”
“It has no one to fight for.”
Years from now, I will unpack the memento,
Having inherited the best parts of you,
Having become the person you’d hoped
I’d be, the better me:

Outside, a callous, immodest man.
Inside, a strong woman.