I’ve been told I
have a beautiful spleen
by a doctor in a
white coat
who was supposed
to know about such things
When he told me I
was strapped
to a gurney in a
small
windowless room
planning
my own funeral
aloud
to shiny and flat
objects poking and placid
tilted this way and
that listening
When he told me he
smiled—
his cheeks grew round and rosy
like a
schoolboy on a sled
hissing through snow
down the biggest
hill one more time
after being called
home for supper
When he told me it
seemed as if
it made up for
everything else
he would say and I
felt so happy
I skipped out the
door into the sun
to shout to the
stars hidden by the light
“I have a beautiful spleen!”
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