when it comes time to
use the knife I won't flinch

and I won't blame you,

you say with so much medicine

coursing, your blood is sludge

sticky thick like your speech and

those doe-slow eyes, roving roving

not seeing but reflecting

mirrors right back at me--

this is a test, right?

and when they come to

carve canned peach portions

from your skull, spoon out

pulp and lace you back up,

I'm supposed to stop them, right? 

firmly grasp that gloved wrist

with surgical steel hovering

inches over gelatin

and say,

no, there's got to be

some other way.

but I don't test well, I want

solutions where there are only answers,

but still I answer--

nod yes and pat your hand

curled up cold and white,

a broken-winged dove

fluttering with some knowledge.