Inside this brokenness, there are shards of hope.
You ask: How are you doing?
I cough a quick reply. That’s
a lie. I avoid you like laundry,
piling up, sitting in the hamper.
You want to know if I’ll drive
you to the hospital in case of
emergency. Sure, I sigh, I can
drop you off. This yes answer
only angers. You want some
Florence Nightingale devotion.
I would leave you there, letting
some unknown paid staffer tend
your wounds. Your injuries are
frequent, and there are only so
many hours in the year. The dog
won’t stand still. Even he won’t
do what you want: lie there all
good boy at your feet, waiting
for decades for you to be whole.
Lori D’Angelo is a grant recipient from the Elizabeth George Foundation and an alumna of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley. Recent work has appeared in Idle Ink, JAKE, One Art Poetry Journal, Toil & Trouble, and Wrong Turn Lit. Find her on Twitter @sclly21 or Instagram at lori.dangelo1.