I’m quite tired of cancer.
It should wither away into dust like rotary phones,
manual car windows and other passé, née primitive things.
I have no idea why cancer likes poets so much either.
Is it because we carry truth in our mouths
like water gourds in the desert?
Is it because we see humanity in small, discarded places?
I’ve decided that cancer not only sucks, but
should surely attack itself until it has eaten
all the evil it can bear and then die
in a lonely dank corner with no one
to surround it with love or care.
We will not be moved, but will march on
with swords in our pockets and drones in our keypads.
Truth is eternal and so are the poets who bear its testimony.
For Giselle Robinson, Lucille Clifton, Ai, and the human called
John TRUdell
© Asani Charles
Life in Print 