Inside of her body the lilacs began to blossom
like spectators at the edges of the battle.
End of March, the field mustard, yellow again,
like before, the towhees scratching at the dirt,
like before. L. is down the hall, flipping channels.
You want to be like her? You want to be
closer, to know
what the needle says in your arm?
No, you don't. At first you wished
it happened to you, at first you wished
For her to share, stupid, stupid little wannabe martyr.
Then you wanted to "protect" her,
from the invaders, the bad bad cells
from the eighth grade cancer reel.
You found her asleep, found
her asleep in the grand design, unprotected,
and you said when when
when did it come to the door, who
were the guards at the gates
of the body?
Disease is punctual
and swaggering: let it in,
said the silence.