Rock, Paper, Scissors

November 1, 2011
Once she sat on my kitchen floor and
we pulled out all her
hair
while the sun tipped its face up
to bask in the glow of the
night
and the cat licked at a spot on the
counter.

Sometimes she paints in the nude,
all thin limbs and
teeth,
I think she pretends she is
beautiful.

Once she was directed to the Men's section
so she kissed the Target worker on the cheek
and unbuttoned her sweater
and he blushed like a drop of blood in a bowl of
milk.

Once she told me the only thing to fear is
time,
and she is playing rock, paper, scissors with it,
bumping elbows with the moon in her attempts to stare down
life.

She likes telling me I am going to die someday,
and that,
by then,
I will have no one left to miss me.

I agree with her,
while the leukemia drains her bones of marrow
and her lips of blood
and she keeps fighting for the right
to laugh,

we both know she can never out run
time.

So for now I will pose for her to paint,
while she sits naked,
all limbs and teeth
and later I will play rock, paper, scissors with her

and I will let her win.





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