Poem in Which There is No Cancer

by Lauren Camp

All around, the heat–wringing.

When D told me his prostate was like Minute Steak,
so much detail left white that he lowered his eyes.

The summer I left K’s house provoked by the great body of thought.

Or when P hid under his roof as his lung collapsed.

How it started was that Mom would he calling tonight at 7.
How it ended is that she won’t.

There was so much to say.