Red
Thick and golden as the Sunday roast
the juices of my body collect overnight.
The relief of release the day's first pleasure
not without a sic transit Gloria
for last night's St. Emilion arcing into the bowl.
But a break in custom this morning.
A stream red as wine, yet cannot be wine.
This is what I have always feared, the day
the secret destroyer makes itself known.
The child's First Book of Illness
with its simple illustrations
is always open in my head:
B for Blood, C for Cancer, D for Death.
I put off going again till I can hold out no longer.
E is for Explanation,
a picture of the doctor talking.
Never throw away mustard jars.
Keep them for mixing sauces,
also for taking specimens to the surgery.
Rinsed thoroughly.
I don't want him saying in his light Scots brogue
'You seem to have a bad case of vinaigrette dressing.'
Outside everything seems so empirical.
Push chairs. Students. Bright sun. Noise.
'Strange,' I think, hardly part of my own body,
'I may be carrying my death in this jar.'
I have brought a novel to read.
An hour passes quickly.
I look around wondering who else is dying.
The elderly Indian with his family?
That woman with the shopping bag?
I have to go again. More diluted?
What will he say? What he says is
'yes, that does look like blood, I'll just test it.'
He checks with a dipstick. 'That's odd.'
He checks again. 'There's nothing.
Have you been eating beetroot?'
I deserve this reprieve, I decide.
It is my reward for being brave
and coming to the doctor straightaway,
even bringing my own specimen
to save his valuable time.
I vow never to eat beetroot again.
'Do you want the jar back?' he asks. 'No thanks,' I say.