Shards of bitter taste arrive like gnats
in a sweaty summer haze,
shifting my thoughts
to the loss of what’s missing
and then to signs of recovery.
Healthy taste cells grow fast and die young,
updating the brain,
delighting the palate,
warning the body of possible danger.
Mine, as expected, are hapless victims
of the proton rays that pounded
my mutinous tumors nearby.
Like the weeping, burning epidermis
of my target surface
the taste cells flamed out shortly,
a sure sign that the treatment was no placebo.
Two years later renegade outbreaks
still recur along the skin’s outer edges.
Sunlight, wear and pathogens can brew
an intense, lava-like burn of sting and itch.
Doctors scramble to their fire stations.
Steroids, antibiotics, and lotions repel the attack,
restoring order to cell recovery.
I trust the taste buds will also heal one day.
For now I sip a bitter coffee stout,
pucker up to a sour lemon sorbet,
recall the savory kisses of gourmet food,
fine wine, exquisite chocolate.
I listen to an owl,
scan the sky, smell the lilacs,
sense the softness of deepening shade.
Brushing aside the gnats,
I inhale the calm of twilight,
exhaling my thanks with no regrets.