Poem for Two Speakers Inside

I wrote this while I was ill and seeking perspective about how ill I was compared to others who were dying or living with a lifelong disease or terminal illness. At times I felt like I was arguing with myself -- thus:

It wasn't accepted well, I think, because of the two voices where most poetry is looked to have a consistent tone throughout. Any comments or suggestions are appreciated. Oh, and just so you know, I thought it an amusing poem. :-)

Poem for Two Speakers Inside

I am disease ridden.    

            I am not.

I have invisible cells

multiplying and dividing

over my ovaries and under

my kidneys into my lungs,

choking my heart.

            I eat right.  Better than most.

            Even macrobiotics and seldom

            eat red meat.  I do aerobics

            and lift free weights.

            My cholestrol is okay.

You are disease ridden. 

            I am not.

You have a silver disk,

it's tick head sucking away

your life, spreading lyme

disease, turning your bones

old and your hair gray.

            I saw him riding you.

            That black stranger

            shame.

He's my lover.

            Does your mother know?

            Do you know where he's been?

I am disease ridden.    

            You are not.

I was glued to the t.v.

I needed to find out

how many had died,

how many enemies taken,

had we won.

            I needed to know

            someone was still there.

We left it all there,

in the middle east.

            I know.

We are disease ridden.  

            We are not.

I saw you in the corner

reading Dostoevsky

laughing as his liver gave away.

You will die too.

            I will not. I will live

            forever.  In my children.

            In my writing.  At least

            on my gravestone.

I am disease ridden.    

            I am.

Sheri Fresonke Harper

www.sfharper.com