Those long legs carried her across the Chiefs parking lot,
battle veteran, blond head held high,
rebuilt breasts the prow of a proud ship.
As she passed, men’s necks snapped around
like rows of sunflowers following the sun.
Now those legs carry her through the halls of chemo,
bald head and fists high as she stares down the Beast.
She girds herself for the daily bombardment
of pelvis and spine by radiation,
chemo drip in the La-Z-Boy showroom from Hell,
armed only with that spirit blazing like a star.
Slayer of pity, resister of the morphine cloud,
she says she’s going to play the hand that’s dealt her.
I wouldn’t bet against her.
by Jackie Fox
Pam and me at my book launch party. I’m the dorky, er, “author”-looking one in glasses.