Lingering

Not so much that she fears death
but that it might be her
refusal to witness the subtle signs.
Each sensation feels like illness—
a numbing along her left side,
strange fires behind her face,
and so much heat. It is August.

She does not want to take
the mantle of a sick woman,
wear ephemeral symptoms
like a gown cut from gauze—
pain dressing her hip, her shoulder,
the shallow dip of her sacrum.
Complaints could be the threads
of one great worry.

If she could see the whole cloth
she might heal herself, mind over doubt,
or find the fabric too worn, too late.