Sniffing At My Door

One night late
the Angel of Death came sniffing,
knocking quietly, sexy,
black felt fedora, shiny loafers, cashmere coat,
humming a tune, Frank Sinatra I’m sure,
Fly Me to the Moon.
And when he showed me my name on a yellow post-it,
I told him Fuck Off.
Oh my, he said, shocked at my language.
You just don’t get it, I said—
I’m a fighter, a survivor.
and I crushed it,
that three millimeter lump in  my soft right breast.
It wasn’t easy. I dangled over a precipice some days,
but I got through it Mister.
Why even bother Dear,
he whispered ever so sweetly in my ear.
It’s going to get you eventually.
I don’t even want to hear that, I told him.
Don’t you see—there are dances left on my dance card,
minutes and days, months and years
to love hard and kiss my babies,   
see them stand under the wedding canopy
and enough time to do some good in this crazy world.
I’m not going with you… I hissed,
and slammed the door in his pretty face.

After retiring in 2009, one inspiring writing workshop launched Joanne Jagoda of Oakland, on an unexpected writing trajectory. Her short stories, poetry and creative nonfiction have been featured on-line and in numerous print anthologies. Joanne’s first book of poetry, My Runaway Hourglass, Seventy Poems Celebrating Seventy Years was published in 2020. Her website is Joannejagoda.com