HOPE: A STAGE-FOUR MIRACLE ON SOUTHMOST ROAD; A PRAYER FOR YOU, JOEY

MILAGRO EN LA SOUTHMOST

By Juan Montoya

Your neighbors en la Southmost still remember

When you – feeble with pain –

Your frail frame wracked by the invader,

Would force yourself to dress, throw on makeup

And limped out to face the day

"It's Stage Four," they'd whisper, hushed

As you dragged your stricken body to the bus

"Pobrecita, como se mira.

Que flaquita."

"Write your will," the doctors said

"You need hospice," the nurses swore

""It's  metastasized, and the chemo won't help anymore."

And you, fiercely savage, determined,

Battled the malignant foe

And shielded by your God and faith

Shunned hospice, wrote no will

"I will," you'd say, "survive."

"La voy a hacer. Ya van a ver."

You watched what you ate,

And knelt and prayed

And ventured out into the blinding day

Downtown, people would see you 

Pale, groping your way, 

Leaning, against the walls,

Panting,

To reach your goal

Impotently, I watched

And beseeched Him

To let me take your place

"Take me instead," I prayed

And cursed when He denied the trade

Then came the day your doctor, incredulously, said

"This cannot be. You're cancer free."

They do happen, miracles

And you

Are a living one 

How often in life,

Do miracles come?

Sometimes they happen 

Right before your eyes

And some can't – won't – see.

It takes one's soul to realize 

Now everyone's amazed

To see you healthy once again

Your pink cheeks glow

The bounce is in your step

And the life-glow, 

Your smile, is back

In the Southmost barrio,

A stage-four C victim prayed,

Hoped,

And defied death