More than four hundred days have passed.
And she remains seated, as if on a throne,
at Washington and Western.
with legs crossed,
she is at the center opening of a
blue and grey tent.
Zipped into her plastic refuge
that protected from a cold wet
winter, it will soon,
defend against summer heat.
This shelter that shields her
conveniently conceals her
from the city which has forgotten
Wall upon wall of obstacles.
A refusal to commit.
A mountainous lack of response.
A discourteous snub to assist.
She would no longer wait,
could not suffer the resistance.
She positioned herself
on the warm grass
She heard voices enclosed in her own exhalations.
She tried hard to decipher each distorted inflection.
Whispers on whispers.
Imperceptible murmurs inside each deep breath.
Her last inhalation, declaration of death.
The spectacle of fleshy petals set her dizzy.
Each overlapping lavender fold threatened an
impossible yet terrifying trauma.
Beads of sweat marked the edge of her lip
like the thorns dotting each stem.
She swooned when a light breeze sent rich fragrance
swirling up her nostrils, rolling down her throat.
Choking on a sweet perfume,
she trembled on the garden ground.
She furrows her brow in disapproval, creasing lines already carved into her forehead.
In violet satin, she surveys the room without lifting her eyes. At the front of her head sits a bulge of hair, most likely a rat inside to hold the auburn tresses in shape.
She dares not look up for fear of catching the eye of a stranger in the bustling room.
Holding steadfast to the task, her gaze remains turned down while her pink nose twitches towards a messy stack of papers. Each page is filled with columns of penciled-in names which she violently crosses out.
Time is up when she feels a curious stare examining her legs, her body, then moving up to observe her lumpy hair. Panic, as this pair of eyes hunt to meet her own.
With dread, she swivels her torso and scurries to the corner.
She is numb, tired of treading treacherous waters.
Although it’s when the motion breaks that the flood of difficulties
threaten to drown.
Was it that long ago when she was drenched in potential?
She remembered the sensation of overflow,
and soaked it in.
She was a clear spring, now the darkest fountain.
She is waiting for something to end.
She is waiting for the meds to kick in, for the plane to take off.
She is waiting to see the doctor, for the quiet to resume, for the bathtub to fill.
She is waiting to pay for her coffee, for summer to arrive, for the rejection letter.
She is waiting for the house to sell, for a hospital bed, for the rain to be over.
She is waiting for a diagnosis, to board another aircraft, for her reimbursement.
She is waiting for her headache to disappear, for the discharge papers, for the plane to land.
She is waiting to be in her bed, to hear good news.
She is waiting for something to begin.
She walked her
path from west to east,
by painted ladies flying a
scattered diagonal route,
south to north.
Dozens twirled round her body.
Several danced above her head.
Hundreds of butterflies,
She witnessed a silence between them fill up
the air and, uncharacteristically,
recognized her lack of desire
to pierce that space with hollow words.
Suspended in the absence of language,
a tender light transported them,
for a few sweet moments,
up above the world.