It would be, I told
my mother, better though clueless
is, as smart people say, the only
truth in cancer. 

                                   Within the world
opposite us, smart people were leaving
Baghdad, war plans prepared.

A port appeared
beneath her clavicle, fluid in tubes
though eyes turned to a top general
fingering before smart people a vial meant
to worry nations. 

                                   Neupogen didn’t
help, red cells only hurt, and though
a tyrant could have done us in with
what smart people called mass
destruction, I kept telling her
it would be better. 

Numbers went
up, bombs down and Gemzar, a drug all but
named for a missile, went in, doctors
making it monthly, a hit. 

                                   Iraqis buckled
under and though no battering spared 
a minaret relief, I kept telling
her it would be better.

Maybe a well-meaning lie
deserves years of silence, the pin
then pulled on intentions, a miracle
spared, someone missing. 

I trained 
with a doctor who gave saline
injections to demanding patients. 
They left
happy, the salty sting repurposing
a pain other doctors couldn’t fix. 

Relief.  No questions asked. 

                                   I value belief, so
I doubt my mother ever believed me
or smart people who said this war soon
would be over. 

                                   A decade and more
beyond, and the doctor in me needs
a shot, a morning when he quits awakening
in Baghdad, smart people saying
it’s only a visit.

– Dwaine Rieves