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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