We see the cell, newborn out of bone,
candid as blood,
on a TV screen, the white
cell, the meutrophil, helpful
as an icon: click here to protect, here to heal.
It quivers constantly, as if cold, removed
from the home of her temperature.
It floats like a mote of radiant dust, those dots
too drunk on light to come down.
It seems both confident and shy, like a masked
superheroine whose identity
has been uncovered by her human lover.
It is asymmetrical as a cloud,
direct as a task,
loyal and lethal as a mastiff trained
by nature, trained to devour
the invader.
Chemo decimated them; shots stimulated the marrow
to remobilize. That's the official metaphor.
But what is this?
This is a horse to carry her,
a horse white
as a smile, as mother's milk, as a shade of ultimate
light,
this is the strong,
the capable, an ally always,
a guardian wise and kind
as a body, as a friend
who'll breathe with her for all her valuable life.
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Rio:
A Journal of the Arts