poem by Dave Morrison

Editor’s note: This poem is reposted from Dave’s Facebook feed. It was accompanied by his note: “Friends, Today is Day 1 of Course 1 (chemo & radiation).” Day 1 is a poem from Dave’s book, Brand New Day, published by JukeBooks in 2007.

Day 1

I woke up on Day 1 and
held my wife for the first time,
drank tea for the first time,
saw my first snow, all before
6:30.
My story? I was born at 5:45 when
the alarm went off. I spent my
childhood showering and shaving and
here I am; no scars, no
nightmares, no scores to
settle.
Is it always this windy? I
have a job, I
assume I’ll know what to do
when I get there. I don’t
know what I’ll wear, or
eat. My wife’s name is
Susan, she’s very
nice.

Day 1

I was born at 5:45 to the
sound of a bell. I grew
up in a blue bathroom with
yellow light and steam. As a
young man I fed cats and made
lunches. Here I am, in my prime;
writing in my journal, getting ready for
the outdoors, a walk to work, coffee.
It is gray and cold outside and
that is fine too. There is a lovely woman
drinking tea – I remember her from being
birthed from the bed. Outside birds sort
seeds in a copper feeder. On the rug a
small gray animal makes a sound like
a diesel. The heat just clicked on. I am
in love with this brand new life.

Day 1

I was born early, struggling
up through the muck like a crazed
tadpole, too soon, anything to escape that
weird pre-birth dream. I’m a twin, but my brother is
somehow trapped in my skull, cramped and angry,
suggesting the most vulgar and preposterous things
in a way that makes my brain spin like a motorcycle on
a frozen lake. Can I get a do-over, can I crawl back
into the flannel womb? I’ve come out in the wrong
world, this one is not safe or friendly.

Day 1

Everything appears brand new – some things
are still warm to the touch. I am
brand new. I feel inclined to write a poem, but
what can I write about, as I have never wept, or
had my heart broken, or experienced death or
fear or shame? I don’t even know
words for the things I see and hear and smell.
Just as well – why bother with descriptions of a
thing, when the thing is
right there? Why run to get a pen and paper to
write a clumsy account of a sunrise, when I’ll
miss some of it in the process?
Better to just
pay attention.
The sky looks like murder, bloody and bruised
a beautiful thing
a beautiful thing
trees cut from black paper, stiff and unused
the sky is a
beautiful thing.
I couldn’t help it.

Day 1

Tired.
My head feels so thick, like my
blood is maple syrup being pushed through
human hair veins, I’m suffocating in my own
head.
Mark my words, one day someone
is going to crack open my skull and find a
black egg, a large jewel, a rope tied
in a knot, a brain half turned to coral, and
we will all go “a-HA.”
That being said, there is a beautiful
light in the sky, turning those huge
streaks glorious colors.

Day 1

Everything is dark, except for
the small glow of a bedside lamp. The
day is over. It was a good day – I did what
I set out to do. Susan, my partner, my
love throughout this long day, is already
gone to sleep. It is time to close my eyes.
Black boat,
black water,
black sand.