He Says I've Got It

Based on the 12/29/13 New York Times article: “India’s Efforts to Aid Poor Worry Drugmakers“

He said “I’ve got it,
I’ve got the big C.
it’s the rock in my breast,
It’s the ball in my chest,
it’s the tentacles in my streams of blood,
it’s the mass in my head,
it will take over my breath
it’s my nemesis,

the rich man says there are cures,
for what I’ve got, there are medicines,
there are new discoveries in the works,
there are exciting happenings
in the world of the big C
they are baiting death,
and reeling in the tentacles
in the streams of my blood
overcome with immortal cells,

I stand alone–
I am the poor,
I am the lost,
I am the one without,
under the bridge,
in a tent, in frayed socks,
my insides quivering–

I am the one who wants to dissolve
in the rain instead of dying,
I am the one who wants
to be turned to a pillar of salt,
from a human to salt,
from salt to dust–
to lifeless matter–
a journey that should be short
instead, prolonged in many cases–

I am one of the useless masses,
sick and on my haunches
after working myself to the bone,
in cycles of sameness
numbing to the soul–
I am the one who was there every morning
when the factories opened,
when the mills sounded their gongs,
when the sun rose on the farms
and the roosters crowed and strutted
their combs on the roofs of barns,

I was one of many
who assembled the parts
of the big machines that ran the show,
one of many who
plucked the oranges and the grapes,
from trees and vines,
one of many
who dehydrated in the sun–
in sombreros– menial labor
notwithstanding– smiling–
in sombreros–one of many
called illegal– slated to die…”

It is possible now to save people from the big C,
It is possible to stem the tide,
to turn the sea back–
to order it to stay put,
it is possible now to tear, pummel,
burn, slash,
slice, cajole and challenge
the big C to give up its ghost,

the rich men–they have the keys
to save as many as they want of poor men,
the rich men they can pick and choose
whom they want alive or whom they want dead–
the rich men they have the vials with the potions
to sprinkle on the poor men who don’t even realize–
they are as disposable as the tissues that wipe the behinds
of the rich men who have the power to curse or bless,
or move the pawns in this game of chess–
to elevate or repress–
the rich men are the supreme rulers with the patents
and the copyrights to the discoveries
for which they say they’ve paid big bucks–
from which they must reap big bucks–

the laws of unequal returns–
as set up by the rich men demand
for any money spent on any cause–
large moneys must be earned
or else it is a waste of time invested
and the investors, also rich men,
will flee to the hinterlands
if not satisfied with plenty of change to count
and toss in their vast bins–

She sprawls in her hut,
her breast has a cauliflower lesion,
the children come to stare–
they stand in awe by her side,
her sister dresses her killer everyday
in gauze meticulously placed
and maneuvered to hide
the ugliness of what can be extirpated
and scotched in the First World–for some–

she of the Third World waits patiently
for the brutal siege to conclude–
has no medicines
for even a day, she’s been told,
the expense is too much for her pockets to bear–
she’s sentenced because she cannot buy–
from the factories of the rich men–
a lease on her life not available–
she will die and the patents they will live–

the patents they will live–
when he of the First World who is poor
will have the plug pulled on him
silently he will go into the night,
one round of treatment teasingly provided–
the next round for want of payment denied–

He said, “I know I’ll make it,
the Buddhist monks have devised
a concoction for lung cancer–
it is not as caustic as the patented potions–
it is available from the Himalayan foothills,
it is sweet and red–an herb collected
by the monks by their prayers made
even more potent than the terrible therapies
the West touts in the East we make it gentler,
kinder on the body–cheaper too we can make it
and circulate it for next to nothing–
with a command to Believe in miracles–it works–
it has to work because I will go broke if I put my faith
in Western medicine my mother
and my daughters will starve
after I am gone what will be left for them to live on
will be a pittance
I cannot eat up the resources of my family,
I cannot pledge their future to a few more years gained for me–
of what use the few more years–
the Buddhist monks they will save me!” he said,

And he died–
And I read his obituary in the papers–
high praise for his intellect–his wit–his charm–
poured in from those who loved him–they wept–
Mithran– he was a lovely man–my friend–
the twinkle in his eye grows large in my mind,
it illuminates all of my inside–
he clocked in and clocked out gracefully–

the patents they will live on…..
until the last drop of profit is eked out of their hollow purpose–
the poor barely whisper health is their human right–
the rich move the pawns….

Usha Nellore