Halfway Through

Forty-eight inches,

a decade of growth,

curled into fetal comfort,

seeks the safety

of mother’s womb.

 

Smooth tender scalp

rests on her shoulder,

arms encircle her neck.

Cuddle toys can’t

fill his need

for security.

 

Radiation’s brand marks

the tomb of the enemy,

robber of joy, peace and play.

Plastic tubes pump

poison into his chest.

 

Dad is big and strong,

Mom, warm and wise,

but sarcoma sucks;

that’s just the way it is.

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