Poetry

Radiation Man
by John Grey

He reached the point
where impending death
was offset
by the sheer splendor
of his skin's illumination.
You could read a book by him.
He entered a room
and it was Christmas.
His wife said,
lying in bed beside him
was like sleeping with angels.
Of course, every day,
more body functions broke down
but that only made
the glow more singular.
The pain that gripped his insides
like bear claws
lit flares in his flesh tone.
Gasps of breath
in shrunken lungs
flicked on beacons
in his eyes.
Thoughts fell through
wide rips in his rotting brain,
spilled out pores
in dazzling rain.
Blood dripped from his mouth,
bloomed crimson flowers
on the gold stalk of his neck.
Meanwhile, priests rattled on about
sins of the body,
redemption by the light.
It meant nothing to him
His body was his light.