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In prison, and bereft of all defence,
But my Healer, graver than ever ere, 
Swirls his chair round, yon of window to stare 
As if to get inspired from Providence. 
More of a dumb than mute, I curse my fate, 
But happy he feels that it’s my left hand, 
We’ll amputate it if we cannot mend, 
What, what? I ask, my mouth an open gate. 

We’ll start with anti-Cox, let it take long, 
If you stick to treatment, you’ll sure get cured, 
Soft tissue bone cancer I hope it’s not, 

It looked he played a loose game of Ping Pong, 
But what’s not in one’s hand ought 'tbe endured,  
He vaguely kept everything to my lot. 


Vague were his ways, vague as his weird know-how—
Of kind that make from mole hill huge mountain,
I ask him once again to well explain, 
Here’s what he said with flourish and a bow: 
There’s a graveyard of local infection, 
And a cyst envelopes it like a fort, 
Fight ensues, there’s settlement out-of-court, 
Bur why worry it all, time to take action. 

The cyst was hence removed, its stems and roots, 
Biopsy tests done still gave not a clue, 
But all follow up had to be gone through,
Cost and concern, me left with bitter fruits, 
   Does today’s tech help, hinder all the more? 
   A mixed bag of debates rage—needless lore. 
_______________________________________ 
Crown of sonnets | 03.11.2012, revised July 2023| 
Poet’s note: Here are sonnets VII and VIII of a sequel of ten sonnets constituting one single poem called a crown of sonnets. The last line of the preceding sonnet is repeated as the first line of the next sonnet, but not verbatim; nor is the first line of the first sonnet is repeated as the last line of the tenth as is.  The sestets are either a quartet and a couplet or two sets of three-lined Terza Rima. Hurt is the place from where light enters, and it did, I realized after my long-drawn medical treatment.
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