The Statue Poem by Dónall Dempsey

'Dying is fun! '
you say

'...once you get
the hang of it...'

'...& as long as
the pain stays away! '

Your face
says ouch
without saying 'Ouch! '

'It adds
an extra spice
to life

knowing how minutes
there are left! '

'I calculated it
with my solar power
pocket caluclator! '

'It seems like
you live it twice
as fast...twice
as intense

seeing everything
so

precise

seeing even

what's.. not...there! '

The pain laughs
at your puny efforts
to control it.

'Doc...says a year
(at the most)

maybe a matter of
months...weeks! '

'It depends
on what

the cancer
thinks! '

you laugh.

'And to think
I'm a Cancerian! '

The pain has not got
your sense of humour.

Already I can see
it is bored by you

tries to wipe
that grin
off your face.

It almost
...succeeds.

'Seems like I'm nothing
now

but this

cancer! '

'It's all that
anybody can see! '

'Like I've been
rubber stamped
on my forehead
or something! '

'Well, Mrs. Cancer...'
I swore I heard the doctor say.

'And, all
my friends
can see
is...my death! '

'They annoy me
with their crying! '

'Hello...hell.. o!
I'm not dead yet! '

'This bloddy cancer
has taken on a life

of it's
own

tells me what
I can or can't
do! '

'It's the boss! '

'Now...
that there's a limit to it

Time...is precious
can't bear...
to waste a minute
.. of it! '

'It feels as if
the cancer

is a famous
sculptor

& labours
to create

the shape
of my death

bit
by
bit! '

'Seems like
it's one of those
ugly modern
abstract statues

you know

meaning nothing
with a hole in the middle! '

'And everyday
the cancer

chiselling away
at it

striving for
perfection! '

'I tell the cancer
Oh...get on with it! '

'Get it over with! '

'See...I'm becoming
quite the philosopher! '

'Now...get out of here! '

'Stop talking
to a dying woman

get out in the sun
don't
waste
a min-
-ute
of
it! '

I laugh.

You're still so.. you!

You ask me
for a favour

before I go.

I scratch
your bum

(you can't reach it
no more) .

You tell me
'That's the best
scratch in all the world! '

I smile
tell you

you always had
the best bum in the world.

You laugh.
(It...hurts) .

I go.
Close the door
behind me

on your dying.

Step into brash sunlight
that feels like it's lying.

Two months later

your death
greets me

disguised as an airmail
letter.

I missed your dying
by a week
...it seems

I'm in a different
country...crying.

A weak sun
shivers in the land

of the living.

From beyond
Death

you write me

a private letter

with handwriting
I wouldn't
recognise as yours.

It just says:

'Donall Donall! '
on the envelope.

Inside
(a card)

a wood engraving
by Eric Gill

the one with Mary Magdalene
covering a crucified Christ
with her body

her hair
like a river
covering them
both.

The handwriting
almost broken

only kept
alive

by your iron
will.

'Guess
the statue's
done

&

Death
is no

Michelangelo

could have done
better myself

but I wasn’t
up to it! '

My tears
dissolving your words.