I want to think there’s a reason
for everything, that who lives
and who dies is not as random
as it seems. I’ve known a man
to stay alive with a tube down
his throat while his desperate family
keeps vigil, and another to drown
alone in his own vomit because he’s
too drunk to turn his head.
Yesterday, in an exam room,
a doctor asked me to tell her
where I hurt, and I didn’t know
where to start. Like a frightened girl,
I stared at the floor and mumbled
everywhere, and the doctor, God bless her,
said, let’s try to narrow it down.
I wanted to do like we’re taught
to do in poetry, show her, not tell her,
how the dark world streams
through my veins, how my skin
holds bruises like they’re never-ending
conversations with pain. I wanted
to show the shadows behind my eyes
bearing memory’s ache,
and then ask, what will you do
with this, Doctor, this body
tearing loose from its soul.
Instead, I pressed both hands
into the center of my chest.
Here, I said, start here.