Undying - Michel Faber

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tell them

      you’re having examinations.

      They understand examinations.

      You say

      you’re waiting on results.

      They know about results.

      You are having tests, examinations, waiting

      for results, for a piece of paper stating

      how you fared.

      You’re under pressure not to fail.

      You are studying survival.

      You are ill-prepared.

      His Hands Were Shaking

      His hands were shaking.

      The haematologist

      who lifted up your dress

      and took the sample from your spine.

      Also, he blinks too often.

      You want to tell him: Look, this blinking

      isn’t helping. Either close your eyes

      or keep them open.

      It would be nice to think

      his tremble was distress

      at causing pain to one

      so beautiful and in her prime,

      and not from drink.

      In time, when these appointments grow routine,

      you’ll pray the secretarial roulette

      assigns you to a different member of the team.

      In time, the trembling blinker will retire,

      vanish unannounced and overnight,

      and you will never have to sit him down

      and say, Hey, listen, I’ve been thinking

      about the shaking and the blinking,

      and maybe you and I

      are just not right

      for each other.

      Contraindications

      You may experience

      necrosis of the jaw, the collapse

      of your spine, the disintegration

      of your skeleton, ruptures

      in the brain, cardiac arrest,

      ulcers in the guts, haemorrhaging

      sores, embolisms, cataracts . . .

      But let’s not jump the gun. Relax.

      It may never happen!

      The following are far more common:

      moon face, vomiting, exhaustion,

      puffy ankles, night sweats,

      rashes, diarrhoea, going bald,

      fluid retention, abdominal distension,

      ‘moderate discomfort’ (also known as ‘pain’),

      extremes of hot and cold,

      prematurely growing old,

      other gripes too numerous to mention.

      You may also, if you’re vigilant, detect

      psychiatric side-effects.

      A mood diary may be beneficial.

      At certain stages of the cycle

      you may find yourself getting tearful

      for no apparent reason.

      Change Of Life

      In our former lives, B.C.,

      all sorts of issues seemed to matter –

      like minor wastes of money, and a scarcity

      of storage space.

      Never the canniest shopper,

      you’d managed to amass

      at least two hundred menstrual pads –

      and you were fifty-two.

      We did the maths, and made a bet

      on whether you would ever get

      through all those pricey towelettes.

      Now, at fifty-three,

      you’ve started chemotherapy,

      and this, in turn, has caused

      a swift, ferocious menopause,

      or, as our forebears might have said:

      ‘the change of life’.

      Suddenly, it’s over: the love affair

      you once maintained with turtle necks,

      mock polo necks, artful layers,

      blouses, tailored outfits, fancy collars . . .

      Your chest needs air.

      A dozen times a day, you grab

      the V-necks of your newly-purchased tops

      and pull them down, revealing your brassiere.

      Panting, you expose your mottled, sweaty flesh.

      Our banter shifts: a different tease.

      You shameless exhibitionist!

      You floozy! Just as well I don’t require

      a wife who keeps herself demure.

      In fact, if you’re so hot, my dear,

      why not remove the lot?

      You stretch beneath me, sexy still,

      your clothes cast down next to the drawers

      where those superfluous pads are stashed.

      We take our time. An hour or more.

      Halfway, you briefly, indiscreetly pause

      to take a pill.

      Prints

      Like a pet that comes in wet and muddy,

      fur matted with adventure, you return,

      bright-eyed and wild, from your nocturnal jaunt.

      ‘Load the pictures in,’ you say,

      handing me your camera, cold as frost.

      You’ve been haunting Invergordon’s shore,

      photographing the rigs at Nigg.

      I slot the memory card into a USB.

      (Your work’s all digital now, and done at home.

      At hefty cost, you print your own giclées.

      You can’t be arsed with darkrooms or with labs.

      Your trusty Topcon’s in a cardboard box somewhere;

      You’ve thrown your dusty chemicals away.)

      ‘Call me when they’re in,’ you say, and scoot

      to the kitchen, footmarks trailing from your boots.

      The images are blurry. They were bound to be –

      hand-held, no tripod, in the wuthering night.

      That’s how you want it. Twenty years ago,

      you travelled with a swag of gear

      and

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