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Songs from the Edge
By Annette G. Pashayan
(Excerpts used in the musical composition)
This work was supported by the Dr. Clifford and Elizabeth Guy Award of the Society of Arts and Medicine of The Arts Council of Winston-Salem and Forsyth County.
I. After the Fall
Two arms have I, two legs, two feet,
Two eyes to gaze on all I meet;
Two ears locate the speaker’s site,
Each side I know as left or right.
Inside, two chambers take in blood,
And two pump out the crimson mud;
Two lungs, two kidneys in me nest,
But on my ribs
Lies just one breast.
This isn’t how I looked when born,
But one was bad and from me torn.
It makes me sad to see me so,
One side a breast, the other, no.
But deep inside I am aware
This is a lesser cross I bear.
What is to come will far worse be
Than seeing this asymmetry.
II. Chemo and Gould
I lie on my side like a shell on the beach,
legs curl in a spiral, head bent to my knee,
I slumber, the tide slowly rises
and fills every angle and curve
every corner and sac.
The tide, now advancing, made bold by a tempest,
The tempest visits these waters in too frequent cycles.
The storm, like an engine,
Deafening beat
Cacophonous shrieking
Is bursting my head, laying blood at my feet.
Crystal percussion, delicious and light.
A song so seductive expressive and lyric,
No storm surge, no blood pools,
Just sleep, plenteous sleep.
So close, I can touch it,
So real I can see him.
He studies my posture through cavernous eyes,
Awaiting my fall, his song beckons: rest!
Exquisite musician,
You sailing the heavens,
Must join your chaconne and travel the stars...
Not now, dearest comfort,
Not yet, great companion.
I’ll shudder as gales tear the flesh from my soul.
I’ll stand in this place, and these storms I’ll survive,
For I, unlike you, will sound best when heard live.
III. Transplantation
Frozen seeds raised from slumber in viscous suspension
That causes its chalice of white to turn silver with sweating.
Through mist, a hand reaches
to force the cold slush through my heart
Where it thaws, giving life to omnipotent forbearers.
Past lungs, neck and head, they swim homeward to spawn.
Some seeds lost in the tumult.
A few, precious few find the marrow bed.
The icy elixir is searing my core;
Stench pervades every pore
And it sickens the angels who soothe me still.
The vile juice conceals its rescuing power:
It is my sole hope.
This foul fuel from my past is my future.
IV. Acts
Who is this man?
Whose hands once pressed
A young and fragrant flesh
Who is this child?
Whose laughter rings
Across the hills and fields,
Who is this friend?
Once dressed to play
In sharing give and take,
Whose quiet vigil guards the weak,
Who washes sanguine, soiled garb,
While asking but a hand to keep...
Who is this man?
Now mop a tepid brow
And cradle a rank and bed-sore frame....
Who is this child?
Whose smiling image hovers
Above the unhappy indisposed
To bless the failing heart to strength...
Who is this friend?
Who is this child?
Who is this man?
V. Restoration
Snow is falling, beautiful snow,
Each flake unique and delicate.
They gather, they stick,
They grow in number.
Winter’s frost bared the earth.
Smug in my relative leukocytosis,
washed in joy and delight,
I smile, I glow,
I rest me content.
Road winding before me,
I’ll travel tomorrow.
Tonight’s quiet,
I savor.
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