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So The Water

David Thompson

He’s sitting naked on the edge, watching
the bathtub fill up, hoping he’s got it as hot
as he can handle.
He shuts off the faucet,
eases in one foot in at a time, stands perfectly
still while all he feels is his own breathing.
It’s tough, the surgeon told him with a little shake
of his head.
The tumors are too big, too close
to your pulmonary artery.
It’s very tough.
He balances with the dirty soap dish and begins
to inch himself into the water, feeling the heat
on the bottom of his thighs and begin to soak
his sagging balls.
Finally, he’s sitting, leaning
back against the tub; his eyes closed shut.
They used to call this stuff the red devil,
the nurse said as she hooked up the IV drip.
You’re lucky.
In the old days nobody made
the car ride all the way home without throwing up.
He slides his knees up, moves down so the water covers
his chest and shoulders, laps up against his chin.
He stares upward, can’t help but wonder how close
this warm numbness is to death, and how bad, after all,
it can really be.

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