heart sores

TODAY, I DIDN’T KNOW.

Today, reading his poetry from the place
called Leukemia: he’s looking for a donor
match and finding one, wishing everyone
found one. Today, tight in my jaw;
my cleft pallet is raw-stretched skin, ribbed
over a bunch of bones up there—
like it’s the carcass of a pig crisping by
a fire, tendered by
pineapples and other fruits.
Sweetened meat. I don’t even have
the cancer. Turns out,
this poet did and he’s my teacher.

Another teacher’s mother suffered, died
even, from cancer. Today she told me.
And it’s not enough to feel your jaw ache
and your throat swell too widely
for sticking words, coherent words. So, what
do you say? No words. No
words. I don’t know.
Gulp. I’m
sorry.

I didn’t
know.