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She is translucent, undaunted in her courage to spike
the ball of conversation one more time
She cannot ignore what she knows, but moves forward anyway.
Nearly six feet tall, she is grounded by the reality of her own disease.
“Not yet,” she cries, “I am not ready for the fall” and takes one more chance
And winning the game herself
She does not know the meaning of the word “teammate”
In her desire to score,
For there is only one moment left
Which is now, nonetheless
What battle can she ferry through
The sand burning her skin as she goes.
Awkward, alive, ambitious
No sickness can stop her drive
Everyone knows but her
She fights to stay illumined
What essence is it then, this game of reality?
“Spike” she screams into a silenced victory
Watching the conversation lull
Does everyone have to know the truth?
To her, it is nothing but the moment
Later, in dreams, she will remember
What it was like to die
