When  was  the last  time  you  felt  well?  asks the
doctor.  What  else have I missed?  asks my body,
butterflied.   It’s  better   to  hobble  than  crawl
down    the   hallway,    I  guess.    Suppose    my  
shoulders  were  shelves,  laden  and  gleaming
with   the   fruits    of   a  hoarder’s    mind:    my
grandmother’s.    Suppose   my   spine   were   a
stairwell  leading to a  locked  door.  I stayed  in
that  room for years  before I realized  I was the
door.    See   how   the   bloodwork  stays  within
normal  limits?  See  how  the antibodies  err on
the  side of  positivity? I can’t  hear my knuckles
swelling but I can taste the tumbleweeds on my
tongue.   In   March,  a   surfeit  of   low-hanging
dreams.  In  one,  I  bomb  myself  into  the East
River,  my shins  butterfly-kicking like a beating
heart.   Skeins  of   sewage  sloshing  against  the
thunderous  bellies  of  leaden barges.  My  body
screaming  stop  at  the  city’s crisp,  unforgiving
edge.   My   body  a  shuttlecock  lobbed  so  high
above  the  skyline  that  church  spires   become
pigeon spikes,  the river a shimmer on the backs
of  my eyelids.  Jesus, murmurs  the woman paid
to  release me from my traps.  I try to remember
to unclench.  In June,  I learn  that  tenderness is
not  normal.  I  resist  the urge  to  disown  entire
swaths  of my life.  August.  Ghosts  in  my blood,
conceding.  September.  Wait, says my body.  Get
up,   says   my   anti-body.   Suppose   every   scab
became  soft  tissue  instead  of  a  scar  stippling
my  skin.   Suppose  I wrote  a poem  about more
than just  what  pains  me;  picked only  the  best
lines  like the seeds  I finger  from  the flesh  of a
watermelon  so   ripe   it   turns  to   mulch  upon
touch.