PISSING YELLOW

For Felix & Felix's Mom

Felix is dying;
he has cancer:
inoperable.
His doctor,
as most doctors would
these days,
suggested to his mom
to get a second opinion
from an oncologist,
but did not offer
much hope.
They also discussed
other interventions:
diet, herbs, meditation,
laughter, and prayer.
I knew his mom
was a strong and willful woman
and would do
what she thought best.

I also knew
how this would effect her.
In her own private blizzard
of inconsistency,
Felix was her only constant;
a soft presence
who only knew
how to give,
and never took
what was not
offered.
He was there
through the hideous years
of a bad marriage
and never judged her;
he heard her words
and her silence
and listened
when nobody else
could hear her
or believe her.
He stood fast
when she crawled into bed
for a year. He smelled
her misery
and did not run
away from the odor.
He understood the pain,
the isolation,
the drugs and the drink
the just being able
to brush her teeth--if that--
and nothing more
for the day.
The world
might have abandoned her,
but not Felix.
Never.

Felix doesn't know
he's dying;
he doesn't feel pain
as pain,
or nausea
as nausea.
They're just part
of the whole deal
of being alive.
He only responds,
as we all do,
to love
and absence
of love.

I shouldn't have
intruded--
not at this time,
but I did.
I came anyway.
I had to come.
I needed her
to love me.
My insecurities
demanded it.
I was led to believe
she wanted me there,
but she didn't. She understands
Felix's love,
but not mine.
She understands Felix's pain,
but not mine.
And Felix was fine.
He was active, alert,
full of play and full of love.
Licks and kisses was all he gave
and caresses was all he wanted.
His piss was as yellow as the sun
on the white snow. His nose
black and wet; his desire
to go at cats and rats
and squirrels boundless.
He was just fine...
for now.
She looked at him
and his leavings
more often than she looked at me.
And I was jealous.
I was in pain
and she
was the only thing
that could make it go away
and she couldn't
or wouldn't
do that.

It's harder
for some of us,
isn't it,
to love humans
for very long.
Especially for those
of us who believe
in our secret places
we don't deserve love at all
from other humans.
Somehow
we got the feeling
that we're too ugly,
too damaged,
too mean,
too deranged,
too not good enough
to be good enough
for anyone
who believes differently.
We mistake kindness
for weakness;
we interpret everything
through the prism of ugliness
and suspect
or own suspicions.
Or, perhaps,
it's simply
revenge.
Revenge on the parent
who tyrannized
or revenge on yourself
who has dared to enjoy?
Or, perhaps,
it's everything
and nothing?
Maybe it's autistic
or maybe it's bi-polar?
Or the disease
of the day
or the hour?

Whatever it is
she's unable
to love
things on two legs.
I'd thought
that because I'm ready,
or think I'm ready,
she's ready.
How stupid
and selfish
is that?
I'm an egotist
and dreamer--
a lethal
combination.

Felix, for the present,
is doing just fine.
It's the two of us
who're fucked.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014