Transfusion -Virginia Boudreau

I sit in my car overlooking Lockeport beach.
Top of the sea bluff across the way
is a curled lip, sneering. I hate
the sound of the heater blowing.
Just last week, warm days cradled, lulling us
into visions of an early spring. Then,
it was easy to believe.

Watching the flustered sky, I take
half hearted slurps of hearty soup made at dawn.
It is not the panacea I thought it would be.
All morning I scrunched toes in my light boots,
hunched further into the folds of my blue sweater,
anticipating the warmth and comfort. But, mission failed.
Cool broth congeals on my tongue. I try to swallow it.

I am talking to my friend miles away.
Her voice seems distant, reception is not the best.
She is at the hospital and new blood
is feeding into her veins as we hold small
phones to our ears and strain.
I picture her in the comfy recliner
gazing out the fourth floor window
at the salt marsh, hoping for a glimpse of
the deer she knows are there.
It’s the second transfusion this week,
the first didn’t work out as planned.

She tells me they are stopping the chemo
“No point” she is matter of fact, upbeat almost.
Before my eyes, a seal pops up in the grey
water of the cove, his head the round
smooth gleam of a wet beach stone
I describe the scene, and
hear her delight, it is genuine and
there is not even a hint of helpless rage.
It thrums through me instead.

A lone storm petrel wheels over moody surf.
From here, it looks like his wings graze
the abandoned lighthouse, perched
on a granite shelf at the edge
of the breakwater.

Virginia BoudreauVirginia Boudreau hails from the south west coast of Nova Scotia, Canada, where she can often be found on a beach. Her work has appeared in a wide variety of international literary magazines and anthologies, both in-print and on-line.