BOTANIC GARDENS

BOTANIC GARDENS

BOTANIC GARDENS

He’d never really thought of radiotherapy in terms
of picnic lunches, Moreton Bays and a winking harbour,
but when they said, “Your machine is called
Botanic Gardens,” he was happy to take them at their word.

Now every morning, early, he lies bare-arsed down
on what isn’t really lawn, allowing careful hands
to lift and turn his body till
they line the tattoos up. He’s done his best to be
polite: the daily courtesies, the normal humilities have become
more necessary – just before he started,
the London underground was bombed
by terrorists. “Remember,” his mother used to say,
“There’s always someone worse off than yourself.”

They leave the room. He tries to pray, “only your love
and your grace, with these I will be rich enough.”
Simplifying things. The shots begin. Soon he’ll hear a sound
that lets him think of tiny birds skittering as if in trees.
After that the machine will seem to open, rustle, fold
over him, and then he’ll think of angels.