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Of the Sky
by Janie Shelton Whisenhunt
Past these glass doors, there's rhythm
in the sounds of traffic, from the clatter
of Sunday dinners. But before her, it is
a reflection that bends with a dream.
A woman lifts her bags from a bed,
she is finished with chemo, the weight
of a breast that is already gone. No more
the paper doll who walks from lab to lab,
she is an Amazon with arrow aimed,
the quest for a golden belt. Skin,
once more, is made remarkable with light.
She steps from the shadow
of lymph nodes that have failed,
the unfolding of silver behind a refraction.
A scarf drops as the door opens, she pushes
into the dome of pines; here, there's breath again.
© 2002 by Janie Shelton Whisenhunt. All rights reserved.
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