Poetry Month: Sunday by Kathy Davis

When I teach The "Literature of Caregiving" class I love to share "Sunday" by Kathy Davis. It is a seemingly simple poem describing a seemingly simple interaction but it is loaded with power and the ever present ambiguity and confusion of cancer and caregiving. Here it is:

Sunday

Joan leans over

the fence, says she had a mastectomy

last Tuesday. And I think: A meal,

I should have known

and taken her one. Chicken Tetrazzini,

tossed salad. She winces when I touch

her arm. A wasp,

for a moment, gives us both something

to wave at. Any degree of mobility

increases survival. “What can I do?”

I ask knowing the answer

will be “Nothing.” Tomatoes, onions, squash

to be chopped.

On my kitchen table, the knife

I use to cut everything in little squares. A breeze,

from somewhere the scent of honeysuckle.

“Let me know if you need

anything,” I say. Joan’s face blank.

The zinnias shouting red. She nods, weaves

gingerly back inside. Her screen door

misses the latch, hanging open like a dare.

                                                      By Kathy Davis