It’s dark out
and there’s a
twisted deer
lying on the
side of the road.

It’s innocent eyes
look up at me
from its body,
sprawled in a
shallow ditch
with its four
legs splayed out.

Its hooves awkwardly
burrow and plow
in the dirt.

The wrong curve
of its neck is so
graceful and elegant
that I want to tell someone,
but I never have anything
worth saying.

—

We’re driving home
from the hospital,
I had them do an
EKG, an MRI, a CAT scan,
and three blood tests on you.

You’re angry at me.
We spent all day at
the hospital,
and you hate hospitals.

I grew up in hospitals.
I find the smell of
quarantine comforting.

Until today I found
the contempt of
hospitals
illogical.

The deer is on
the side of the road,
quietly suffering
in a hole in
the dirt,
and
I don’t think there’s
anything more lonely than
that deer,
except maybe me without you.

—

The nurse told me
that according to
legend if you
fold a
thousand paper
cranes you
get one wish.

I have heard this
one before,
in a book I read
a long time ago
about a little girl.

But the little girl
didn’t get her wish.

And I’m far
too skeptical
to believe such nonsense.

(the truth is
you deserved one
crane for each
ailment: One for every seizure;
one for every tear; two for your
weakened wrists; another two for
the circles under your eyes;
twenty-four for each rib jutting
out of its place; don’t make me
continue this list)