Jonathan Fletcher
When informed of your incurable prognosis
you set out toward the setting sun
like those early pioneers who
in frontier spirit, packed up their families
in cramped prairie schooners,
then picked up and rushed west,
each anxious to reach Oregon.
As disease spread throughout your body
you prayed for the resilience
of those trailblazers who endured
cholera outbreaks, raids
starvation, and exhaustion —
hardships they welcomed readily,
all in hopes of deliverance in Oregon
As you started to suffer seizures
each one more severe, longer than the last
you prayed to who went before:
Grant me the will and courage
to pursue the path of the pioneers
and may my pain and suffering both end
at the terminus in Oregon.
As you approached the frontier
having been robbed of much
having gained much, too, you praised and blessed
your guides for their presence and direction
then met your medical team in person
still weak in body though strong in mind
ready to depart Oregon.
As you imbibed the merciful cocktail
your team of doctors mixed for you
you asked of your pioneers a parting favor:
Direct west those without hope
of recovery, yet only should they wish
and may they, too, at trail’s end
find relief in Oregon.
CLAMOR 