Scare

Day 1

Nothing was there.

Because only undifferentiated skin

was there before.  
                            A vague

but tactile, little lump

filled ‘nothing’ with a

budding fear that grew

quite circumstanially:

it’s in the danger area, armpit and

lymph-nodes-cancer-death –

screamed behind cold logic which

averred that all this fuss was

just a simple pimple’s pus.

Day 2

Do I recall an itch, a vague

uncomfortableness

under the arm, before

an object formed for touch?

Perhaps.  But what is not a question

is the fact that there is now a

new off-centre focus to my

universe which radiates to

utter dark and tightens to a

limb: the arm, arm pit, on

the left side.

Day 3

So, I have shown it off,
or rather shown it to,

and I’ve been told to wait

and see if it gets worse.

When I touch, there is no pain.

But it is something

foreign I don’t want.

This thing has crawled out from

my skin and scrawled on paper.

It is now a character, as in a tale.

But you can close a book;

the page within my arm

still turns.

Day 4

In spite of everything
I have been told,

my questing fingers seem to lead

a life which is their own.

‘Leave it alone’ is right

and proper and impossible. 

So what was just a slight

protuberance is now a thing

of rage. 

And I can sense the vessels

in my arm are skirmishing;

or are they digging in

for a much longer war?

Day 5

The thing is not positioned

so the view’s direct.

The bathroom light is dim,

the mirror misted and

there’s so much more
imagination tells

than I can see.

The Savlon’s not to hand, and so

I try a Spanish salve which uses

iodine to rub in confidence.

Such ointments help to soothe

away the cancerous fear - 

if not cancer itself.

Day 6

I know the thing is there,

by sense, if not by feel.

There is no pain,

just doubt.

Day 7

Still there.

Though now there is a need

to search.  I want it gone,

and yet it centres my concern.

I trace a finger round the

contours of unease

and speculate about beneath.

Day 8

The passing blimp.

The small and giving dirigible

just waiting for the slicing light

and corpuscular ack-ack to

see it off.

The Jabberwock is slain -

although my soft and silent thought
still wonders.