at the MD Anderson Cancer Center at Cooper,
Cooper Plaza, Camden, New Jersey.
Unfair figurative toss of the genetic dice throw
though not surprising
given the prevalence of breast cancer
along the maternal trunk line,
cuz my mother, who succumbed
to cells that ran amuck
goose got cooked, condemned fate
she could not buck
and not just the woman
who birthed me, her sole son
but all her older siblings
their fait accompli could not duck
any more so
than mommy dearest,
the baby of the Kuritsky family
taken down NOT by breast cancer
(which she survived)
medically referred to by several terms
depending on the type and spread,
including malignant neoplasm of the breast,
breast carcinoma, and mammary cancer.
Uterine/ovarian cancer she would not survive
the last three years of once
vibrant Arthur Murray dance instructor
in her prime, where chance encounter
with Boyce Brandon Harris
a student, who eventually
became husband and father
to yours truly
as well as an older and younger sibling
passed away approximately
a month before fiftieth wedding anniversary
to said tall (not so dark) but handsome man.
The fighting spirit left the late Harriet Harris,
thus she gave up ghost battling carcinoma
that metastasized presenting impossible mission
to outlive and prove prognosis a false alarm,
and escape clutches of the grim reaper
rent indomitable fighter
to concede the mortal prognostication
despite spending a truckload
of money on herbal remedies
a measure for measure of desperation.
Though only thirteen months
and about twelve days my senior
she protected Matthew
(against kids that bullied me
as a convenient scapegoat – no kidding)
now being targeted
against the sheltering sky
unimaginable for me,
how acquiescence to punishing
(possibly fatal) illness
allows, enables and provides
impetus to live,
though just in the beginning
throws of treatment,
a probability to beat the odds
she clings to analogous to a life raft awash
within the shark infested waters.
Though known since birth
that final reckoning will arise
tis nasty, short and brutish
cellular nemesis gone wild that despite
the remaining healthy tissue,
one cannot hide and present guise
of all\'s well that ends well
how many more July\'s
will be witnessed,
thus forced to memorize
positive moments in a life
possibly to be cut short
and garner the prize
of posthumous good cheer she did deliver
to kith and kin,
and maybe lady luck will surprise
endearing loving tears of sadness,
I cannot verbalize.
Hours ago yours truly - me - did awake
tortured by worst case scenario
and evaluate current physical ills of mine
such as lower near debilitating backache
possibly the sacral lumbar
as assessed about three
and a half decades back
when Ben Montinelli
(unsure about his surname)
maintained a practice
at Manhattan Chiropractor\'s
within East Norriton, Pennsylvania
wonders if said vertebrae source of pain
analogous to an automobile id est disc-brake
but if x-rays reveal moderate malady
twill be far less upsetting than heartache
of losing an endearing caring sister
who (a reasonable possibility affected)
when my late mum prescribed
the hormone diethylstilbestrol (DES)
to alleviate nausea
while pregnant with Amelie Beth.
I will NOT share this poem
(even under penalty
of death be not proud)
with aforementioned sibling
though cathartic to post
so other anonymous readers
(some who experienced tragic loss,
whether linkedin
to terminal illness or other ill-fate)
can realize that one logophile now
cannot fully bask in the onset
of Vernal Equinox, preceding
and heralding the appearance
and Rites of spring 2026.