Chemo with Coleridge

—new poem from Makarios, my collection-in-progress

The port implanted in my chest will serve

to deliver directly to my heart

the pharmakon my doctor has alleged

might just give my malicious blood a nudge

in the general direction of its

atonement, my repair. May it be blessed.

To keep my mind otherwise engaged, I

have brought my longtime correspondent,

Mr. Coleridge, his collected works.

His collected works are working their charms

to the degree that hours pass without my

dwelling on the manifestly dire straits

of those who sit adjacent, receiving

their own, special mix of remedial

poisons. Thank you, dear Mr. Coleridge;

so long as I do not dwell overmuch

on their gaunt and sallow visages, my own

languishing is less likely to drag me

to grim self-pity, which seems far too much

like death. My poring over these beloved,

demanding poems infuses my anxious

heart with a balm concocted in concert

and correspondence with the terms I hold

in hand. As I read, I say the words—each

syllable—within my mind, my very nous.

I say the words there, listening, that I

might revive within me their symphony,

that from this ice I might yet build a dome.