wheels

the night before his surgery, my boy’s body is a dark suggestion I inspect with a cell phone’s light.  his brain is tucked away.  his brain a self-assessing god that, created, has ceased to exist.  I hate that I have as all do a floating rib.  it would put me in a better place

referring to it as satan’s disabled life raft.  I have no advice for those on the operating table.  for those above-

say thumbprints.  start missing.