Aubade With Brain Tumor

If the morning is an explosion, let each hour blow

the sky’s blue cerebrum. I’ve spent my life
moving room to room. And I will spend today


*

                       as far from my brain
as my mind will allow. The multiplication

tables of cell division, today’s surgical instrument,

John’s body disappearing beneath the blankets—
let each second radiate its brightened chemicals

through my eyes. Until I wheel into sleep’s waiting room,


*

he will be on my brain, multiplying
until he is everywhere inside me.
                       (Do I need to spell it out?)


*

At night, John will sing I had to know
where you had gone as I recount my day—
 
the two of us curled in the twin bed
                       of my cramped skull.

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