About Ben Dooling

I began this blog shortly after being diagnosed with terminal rectal cancer. It has since begotten a short book of poems, most of the poems came from here. Cancer has taught me more than it has taken. It has shown me my gifts, and what an examined life is.

Memories that never were

Image

I met her on my fingertips
while I was writing a poem.

This is a memory that never was
She was arranging words and thoughts
and doing things to my heart
that changed me.

This is a memory that was.

She is always there
but not always visible,
like the shadow of the sun.

She holds my screams
in her arms.

She is the easy chair
of my life,
where things come out right
and the longing for a kiss
burns all night.

This is a memory that was.

One night,
we were by the water
and the waves
poured past my walls.
I reached over
to kiss her,and the heart of the sea
filled me with its life.

This is a memory that never was.

She holds my pain
on my fingertips
and teaches them ballet-
my poetry.

Oh, where do I end and she begins?

I had a memory once,
I think,
of holding her
outside of a 7/11;
she’s crying because her nana died,
and I was crying because I never met her nana.

It was October and the leaves
were the confetti of sorrow,
drifting past our tears.

This was a memory that never was.

Maybe somewhere on my fingertips
there’s a wish she has to kiss.
Oh, maybe somewhere on my fingertips
she has a wish to kiss.

To be born with a touch
or a kiss or a word,
would kill my death forever,
for her love is a sword.

–for A.C.13654477697821

attatchment

I am not my body-
skin falling like a dead flag

I am not cancer;
the inevitable march of God’s assassin.

I am not a son;
my mother falling away slowly.

I am not a poet;
mortal fingers ice skate across the keyboard.

I am not a friend;
the past littered with fallen relationships.

I am…

I am..

the eternal witness that is questioning these things.me

The Woman at The Bookstore

I’ve known her for centuries-
her dark glasses make rings around my youth.

Dark Hair,
Dark Eyes,
A winsome smile-

She is the light in my shadow.

“So you want to work here?”
Something burns in her eyes.

“Uh, Yeah,” I stammer.

She’s a clerk at a bookstore
in Harvard Square I frequented
as a youth.

Her dark hair,
she runs her fingers through it
as though grooming a secret.

She turns around in a flash
and hands me a piece of paper.

‘Her phone number? Could it be?’

“Please call Jake at …..”

then she turns away
and walks down the longest
hallway I’ve ever seen,
disappearing into files,
whispers, and other memories.

I wake up sagging,20121209_143347
knowing that she never was,
and the hallway she disappeared into
is the mouth of death.

mother

My mother, my moon of peace.

She was a frightened bird
In her hospital gown.

My mother, the center of myself.

The words left her lips
Like a herd of startled deer.

Scattered, she spoke
Of a loose fear,
Of not being able to change her lifestyle.

My mother, my stillness at three a.m.

“I don’t think I can change,”
I pressed her hand,
Wishing it was me laying there
Instead.

My mother, the invisible
Space between us
Leans toward the sun.
It always has.

“Thank God you are here,”
I said,. She thought she
Was having a heart attack.
It turns out she had blood
Clots sucking the life
Out of her lungs.

My mother,
The face of my youth,
Still,
At 74.

Fear swims through her body.
“I can’t do it. I can’t. It’s too much,”
She didn’t say that, but I heard it.

My mother,
My mirror smeared with love.

I left the room with trembling hands.
She couldn’t see that, but she held them until they became still.

The Unthinkable

Some decisions weren’t meant to be made.

The cessation of treatment for cancer
looms before me like a silent
waterfall of black water.

The writhing pain
of continuing
on this path is equally unthinkable.

I stand at the turning point,
seeking signs,
tapping into prayer,
staring at the sky.

Some decisions weren’t meant to be made.

How can I continue? How can I not continue?

The trumpets at the end of a great battle
lift into the air,
the scores of dead bodies
surrounding them
are wrapped in silent prayer.

I can almost hear those trumpets,
as I lumber across the battlefield
on my horse.

Out of the corner of my eye
I see a formless figure,
crying out among the slain.

It is made of a dimming light,
it’s limbs are sounds of great color.

It is my own spirit.

It is my own spirit.

Crying out: “No more.”