her hair is crimson-orange
she says, "i'm going to die--"
sighs and goes on, "dye my hair,
since i might lose it
an airy curtain swirls in the wind.
traces of sundae flavor
hang in the fall air.
chemo sounds like creamy sweets
in a horror donut shop.
desert is still in the window.
cancer lives in her gentle insides.
i imagine it is as beautiful as she is,
as her bluish powder,
her pale freckles,
her silver rings,
I look at her pixilated print textile,
a sun spark in the glass button,
an illustrated bible on her desk,
a picture of her son
playing with a toy fire-truck,
an unfinished cup
of steaming peppermint tea,
and see death hovering over her
like a shadow of a butterfly
even her death is beautiful