Doxorubicin: Infusion

The eye sees only three colors—cardinal in the garden, green bough, blue sky.

This morning, a wreck of brightness, not light,

but the memory of light. Not red but the memory of flying.

Here, a tenderness too bright to look on.

White breeze of a blanket settling on a chair.

A sequined purse turned disco and shattering

the room’s blue air. Someone is moving her lips

as someone else speaks opposite.

Someone is sleeping in a pickle of light.

Above me, outside, the cardinal, walking along the gutter,

stops high above my shoulder

like a fact that can’t be held.

Here, the body undoes itself.

The lung, its flutter. The sacrum’s

sacred shield. Every red cell.

The clouds come and go as themselves.

Who says when the body is better?

Why should I believe them?

Why, this morning, is the eye lidded down,

salt-smudged, confusion, watercolor and linen?

Can I not be the day’s exception?

Do I close my eyes or open them?