Type Dancing

As my love is tied
against the ropes,
the disease delivering
jarring jabs,
but no knockout blows,
I watch outside the ring
observing the slow
destruction of the body
for which I ache.
I want to embrace her,
but she is in the ring
with disease.
The referee, Death,
ignores the headbutting
and blows beneath the belt.
I want to jump into the ring,
to stand in for her,
take it on the chin.
But the best I can do
is wait in her corner
with a bucket of fear
for her to spit in
and a towel of love
to wipe away
the sweat
and tears
and blood.