Sheba
In one of the last days of summer,
in a last hour of the day,
when minutes begin to liquefy
and flow to the earth
like thick syrup,
she stood in the doorway
and inhaled
the scent of leaves and grass
drifting through the air,
a tang of death blurring the edges
of the aroma,
fogging the last bits of spice
released by the summer sun.
She lingered in front of the
screened door
listening to cicadas
struggle against their dying,
protesting oblivion.
A turban covered
some sparse strands of her hair,
left after the second round of chemo,
a few curling strands stubbornly clinging
to her scalp like cut roses
cleaving to color and fragrance.
Like Sheba, she looked regal
in her headdress and robe,
straight and strong
to the passerby,
her mind not ready to answer
the question facing
the moth circling the light above her head.
