Zarina Zabrisky

CANCER

her hair is crimson-orange

crisp

fruity

cranberry

citrus

she says, "i'm going to die--"

sighs and goes on, "dye my hair,

since i might lose it

anyway.  chemo."

an airy curtain swirls in the wind.

traces of sundae flavor

hang in the fall air.

chemo sounds

like creamy sweets

in a horror donut shop.

desert is still in the window.

silence.

cancer lives in her gentle insides.

i imagine

it is as beautiful

as she is,

as her bluish powder,

her pale freckles,

her silver rings,

her tattoos.

I look at her pixilated print textile,

a sun spark in the glass button,

an illustrated bible on her desk,

a picture of her son

playing with a toy fire-truck,

an unfinished cup

of steaming peppermint tea,

and see death hovering over her

like a shadow of a butterfly

even her death is beautiful

ONE IS ALWAYS ALONE 

Emptiness the size of the world

Is bigger, blacker than death.
 
Scars instead of the wings.
Wings withered,
Wings wilted.
 
Darker than even death
Is impossibility to love.
One is always alone.

Death is only a transit train:
Hell to hell.
Dying will not be hard,
Hell is always hell.
 
Illusions are the worst.
 
"Never" has a soothing consistency,
Like a missing limb,
Like an internal wound.
Like the rain bleeding outside--
Again and again--
Black blood rivers.
 
Death, love--
The same.
Nothing but loss.
Nothing but lies.
 
Grief is the scariest
When scowling.
My heart used to tremble,
My soul used to soar.
 
Illusions are more cruel than axes.
 
Pain
Never comes alone.
Always in packs.
Like yellow-teethed predators
Inside my screaming veins,
Eyes burning red-green.
 
One is always alone.