“No, I am not” the shy
whisper in front
as all the chairs settle as
the air quiets, only
the air hum and eyes
like guns seeking their crosshairs.
“No, I am”
not the hair at front
shifting, the mildly wavy
bangs take their turn
left then right across
perspiring tweezed brows, slightly
irregular. She instead composes
into herself, a garment chosen
for the weather, the glide
of evening. Glistening
and still overheated with summer moisture, she
forsakes the shifting pages and sees
there in the back
the one just back
from this morning’s chemo,
clicking a list, breast?
blood? not lung, no? Something
else female? And speaks
to her.
