By Veronica Ashenhurst
The anatomy of her young life was
primary red. One cloud-high day, she cleared
for takeoff on a runway. Next, her hard,
sudden fall. Illness, a large exhausted lack.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” said doctors,
in decades multiplied like judgments. She was
told the symptoms were imaginary.
To dismiss her was efficient, like acid.
She lives, then, in a chain; in sclerosis
of her will; altered by this school of loss.
But medical tests had been measuring the
wrong things. Research now maps abnormalities
in the blood, brain, and cells. A wonder, then—
she and her silver fraction of life remain.
Copyright © by the owner.