This month's poem was chosen by Peter Crompton, he says of it, "Incredible!"

Find out more about Sean and his work at http://www.writeoutloud.net/poets/seankavanagh

Christmas Day 1994

We stalk the wards Dr Davies and I,
Fixing what has gone awry,
Preparing for periodic paltry medical attendance,
A desert spell of festive bank holidays; Saturday; Sunday.

Before this day Michael had beamed a light,
On the dark drudgery of trudging round the wards,
Witty, bubbly, gorgeous Michael,
Whose friends might joke that his lovers hand-in-hand,
Would run Canal Street’s length.

But today, Michael has no yuletide cheer,
He does not charm or joke or feign in flirts,
He lies gasping and unaware,
Holding his dad’s hand
Hurtling on the slide downhill,
Because Michael is dying.

His father knows,
His brothers know,
The nurses know,
I know,
Michael knows,
But Dr Davies, this guy who knows all there is to know about fungi,
Does not want to know, that Michael is dying.

The specialist’s eyes have captured steep decline,
His ears have held the stertorous hiss of rattling breath,
He’s watched the wasting of a hard young frame,
To bones fit only for ash,
He’s noticed the interlocking hands,
Holding on to this the last,
Because Michael is dying.

Dr Davies strives for Michael’s time,
Reeling off a concise list of clinical derring-do,
Cefaclor, pentamidine, intubate and ventilate,
Michael’s father winces in this crystal litany’s midst,
He smells antiseptic futility; holds a holed umbrella for a killing rain,
Because Michael is dying.

Dr Davies leaves,
I sit with Michael’s dad,
He cries and asks me what I think,
Is there any point to all this stuff,
For can’t we see that Michael is dying.

Agreeing, I decide to speak again to the man in charge,
Wrestling subjugated fear and dialling,
Passing on familial reservations,
They want it all to end,
Since Michael is dying.

Dr Davies says he understands,
But doing nothing will not do,
I jump myself in sharp response,
“Why not?”, I say, “Michael is dying”.

Over wire I feel his shock,
Then taste the dangerous insubordination,
In the silence’s grisly yawn,
Then I hear him mutter, of CD4 counts dreadfully low,
And concession that it might be best to let him go,
I sigh relief as he feels that Michael is dying.

I do not blame him for his fear,
For wanting at least partial victory,
Over viral loads that swept young men in droves,
Nor for shrinking as a witness, like me, to Michael’s shining locks’ rot
To balding desolation
Dr Davies fought and fought, so knew not when to stop,
And now, fourteen years on, is winning,
But back then,
Michael was dying.