Ally Malinenko- Three Poems

A Letter to My Radiation Oncologist

Eve,

my husband nicknamed you Whirlybird.

I’m not even sure where it came from

other than a need to make me laugh

when cancer took it’s hard cold fist and wrung all the joy

right out of my belly

there he was calling you Whirlybird

with your hair falling out of its clip

and your too big shoes,

your doctors coat always a tad askew

as if you just stumbled

lipstick smeared out of a closet

after making out with one of the younger residents.

For 36 sessions, you administered

a deadly beam of radiation

through my right breast and lymph nodes

hopefully not hitting my lungs

hopefully not hitting too many bones

and I’m not entirely sure how you managed it,

Whirls, since you never seemed to be able to find

your notepad

and because you started and stopped more sentences

than a kid on a sugar high

and because you giggle like a girl getting a first kiss at summer camp.

Because, Whirls, this is cancer, my god,

you have to be serious

so that day

when I waited in my paper gown

and heard that bang on the other side of the door

I just knew it was you

even before you said,

Oh, oh my, um…one second

and then when you appeared at the other door,

and realized you were locked out of both doors

and you knocked and said,

“Um it’s me, can you let me in?”

and I started to laugh so hard

Eve,

for you, Whirlybird

my doctor,

I just want to say thanks.

Because at the end of the day

it’s important to remember that all of you doctors

don’t really know what you’re doing anyway

and this might be one giant crapshoot

but Whirls,

god knows if it all goes to shit tomorrow

you made me laugh.

At least we had that.

Verlaine was a Dirty Old Man

What is it? What is it?

the old man says coming out of his lace shop

looking at us, map in hand.

We are in Brussels just weeks after the terrorist attack

and the news keeps telling me that the residents are reeling

but all I see are people

eating and drinking with friends,

you know,

living

and he says again, what are you looking for?

I live here long time. I help you.

His French accent heavy on his tongue.

The marker is wrong he tells us,

pointing to the stone monument outside

his shop

the one that claims that in this building

Verlaine fired shots at Rimbaud.

Two lovers, twisted together in this city.

It did not happen here, he says,

I bought this building back in the 70’s

and it did not happen here.

It happened down there,

he points down the street,

about four streets and to the right

but here,

he points at the parade of Chinese tourists

that pass by,

here, he says,

all tourists. Is better for city to lie.

So Verlaine, he says

dirty old homo

he was here drinking

and

he pauses

he liked to fuck

he says

which makes me and my husband laugh

which makes the old man smile

Yes, fuck

he fuck all the time.

Dirty old man fucking.

This area was full of homos back then

Homos up here,

he points up the cobbled stone streets

homos down there

he swings his hand behind him

just drinking and fucking

dirty old Verlaine.

What else you want to know?

he asks me

so I say

You know where Van Gogh lived?

and he nods

thinks hard

and says,

two blocks down there.

On the left

Not so much fucking.

So much crazy, that Vincent.

Everybody’s Got A Hungry Heart

I was thirty years old

the rock star says

and I wanted so many things

love, stability, a family.

And I thought if I wrote them

all down

if I really imagined it,

he says

well then maybe it would happen for me.

So I did this.

But I did it for you too.

I did it for all of us.

It was a time we all had

and something that shouldn’t be forgotten.

and I look around the crowd

all 40 thousand of us

packed in our seats

having spent the money

we earn at jobs we hate

to be here

to commune

because that is the power of music

and that is the power of art

and I look around

tears in my eyes

because we’re all here together

with this man who had spoken to us,

for decades

and all I see

are the mad workings

of sad thumbs on phones,

heads down

ears open

but not hearing the words

not seeing the rare gift this man

the love just offered

the insight

but only straining

for the opening chords

of Hungry Heart.