This poem was inspired by an essay my daughter wrote about her Dad when she was a kid. It was called Superman. I wrote the poem a few months ago.
Ruth Pennebaker’s July 21st post reminded me of the poem. Ruth is a wonderful writer, and I come away from her site with much food for thought.
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©2005 Amber Yoder Exquisite Flaws
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The above picture is from a gallery Amber created about scars. The gallery contained photographs and stories about people with physical scars: cancer survivors, a World War II vet, children who had come to the U.S. for surgery, etc.
Amber also put these scar stories in a book she made herself called Exquisite Flaws.
The gallery showcased the beauty of scars. Yes, beauty. It was a physically beautiful presentation. The stories were fascinating.
Contrary to what some people think, “survivors” are not pitiful.
My jokes are by no means intended to downplay the seriousness of the subject. I mourn the friends I have lost. We are not special people just because we continue to breathe. Obviously, I still have many fears.
But humor has been a big part of our story. I hope it always will be.
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Superman Part II
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
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I never knew cancer
was funny
until you named
your IV pole Rod.
.
Rod was a man of steel
down cold, white halls.
He never left your side.
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The nurses who poked too hard
were Ratchet, Brumhilda, Big Bertha.
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You were Frankenstein after chemo,
hardly able to bend your knees
to walk to our old, hot Dodge
.
also called The Batmobile.
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When they put you
in the sterile room,
the man next door died
.
so you joked
about tapioca–
your kryptonite,
.
my crazy cat eyes
behind the mask,
my pink fingernails
touching you
through lead gloves
.
the thin film
of the bubble
.
the glow of your
yellow-green skin
your skull, your bones.
.
When blood counts
in the last stage were
so low it was not
humanly possible,
you turned into
Dracula’s cousin.
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Over a decade later,
you tell me a joke
about a politician
and The X-Men
at the doctor’s office.
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Yes, it is really over.
Yes, it is really gone.
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Now new villains
hover in a bubble
on the horizon.
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Foreclosure.
Bad credit.
The bread line.
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The growling worry
of getting put
in the woods
with werewolves.
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Still, you come
through the door,
brown eyes blazing
after sixteen hours
.
of sweaty work
at a crappy job.
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Under bright
kitchen lights,
you puff out
your chest
and suddenly
I have no fear.
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Captain America
has arrived.
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Let the big screen
bring it on, baby.
We’ll kick ass.
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Or else
we’ll die
laughing.
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