CANCER

her hair is crimson-orange

crisp

fruity

cranberry

citrus

she says, "i'm going to die--"

sighs and goes on, "dye my hair,

since i might lose it

anyway.  chemo."

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.

silence.

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,

her tattoos.

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