Knox ER
When the nurse asked me my full name
I didn’t stumble like I did with Sylvie,
in my delirium of pain. I don’t mean to be rude,
ma’am, but I’m not telling because I can’t pay
and I don’t think you’re allowed
to deny me treatment, like, under the law, right?
Yet another bleeding-the-Beast trick
I had picked up along the way, not that any of
my old family placed much confidence in doctors
anyway. At this point, I’d have had my arm in a sling
made from bandannas knotted together, my mother brewing
willow bark tea on a propane camp stove,
someone with their thumb jammed
in an acupressure point behind my knee.
Now back in the parking lot, day breaking,
sitting in Sylvie’s van, arm encased
in a cast, Winslow behind us looking on
with soft, wet eyes, clearly wondering
if he would be rewarded with a treat
for all his trouble (that he caused),
staring at the addition to my arm while Sylvie drives
us back to the campground. Ever tried
to hop a freight train with a broken arm?
Neither have I. Sounds like a good way
to fall under the wheels and end
your new life before it even starts.
I’m screwed, I say, not sure whether
I’m saying it out loud
or just thinking it but not
really caring.