She looks up
at me, quietly shy
as she
begins to pull off her clothes.
Her eyes
glitter like a cloudless blue sky,
with a youth
never outgrown.
I study her
bare body, observing curves
once more
full and tight.
The sin
loosened and darkened
– sagging, spotting veins blue.
Her joints
are sharp points, hair growing in patches,
a trembling
from loss of control.
I can’t see
her a ugly.
I can see
she is beautiful
in a
different way.
When she
removes her shirt,
a hand rises
to her chest
self-consciously
where her breast should be.
Smiling she
tells me: “I told them to take it
when they
told me I had cancer.
My husband
is gone; I knew he wouldn’t mind.”
I want to
cry, or hug her, or something,
but she
doesn’t need my pity.
When I help
her stand, lending my strength,
I can feel
her spirit remains strong.
