Roadside Bambi

cancer did not teach me that life can end
at 31
in a bar with a dancing jukebox.
no no no no no
my sister taught me that 4 years ago. dropping
dead
before the ancestors had a chance to say
“abiroduogo”

cancer did not teach me how to lose
everything
i taught myself that when i
burned down
the breakfast table, then carved up the meat
sliced so thin
i saw right through them as i
devoured the lot.

cancer did not teach me about love at all, that stuff left me
bludgeoned
like a deer struck down in snowy traffic by some
waster
who couldn’t “hear” it, not sure which part, liver or
tumours
at least Mr. Shark stitched me back up when he was
done with me

and then
in the quiet
of the night
devastated by
blood’s pink spray
scars flashing lights
and so much
screaming

i found her.

hot breath
and a
wet nose,
soft as a marshmallow.

she was still holding
her broken heart
in her
hoof.

that was the night i discovered
i can carry
a battered deer through a blizzard
if i keep breathing

many miles later
sprinkled with snowflakes, we enter
the glow of the theater
through a tunnel of popcorn and hope

the lights dim
film whirls
and in a flash

i am laughing in a jazz bar
with a french bruja
and a cucumber fizz

i am with a sweet brazilian
and he is catching my mangled legs
“i’ve got you”

i am in hushed talks with
the diamond dealer as he slips me
a 24-karat pathology

a melanoma princess
shows me her pineapple plant
the size of a toddler

a true oracle conjures
empanadas and scorpio mate
pouring dark plots by an empty poolside

at the sound
of puffing nostrils

i turn from the movie
to my roadside bambi

i kiss her soft ears
and wrap her heart in a candy bag
for later

i close my eyes
and hug her tight
fur sticky with blood

through all this
i have my whole soul

hot breath
and a
wet nose,
soft as a marshmallow.