After losing her hair from chemo,
she looks like a Buddhist monk
but her eyes are still the same black butterflies
resting in the shade of her eyebrows.
I see the same seriousness there which taught me to crawl
into her twin-sized bed during the afternoon hours.
We two became honey bees in a hive's tiny cell
and outside, by the water well, our mothers whispering
about a strange feeling in one’s belly.
I feel the same electricity now from her hands’ touch,
showing me how to love a little bit, then like crazy.