The backbent arch peers
at my depositions
from a 2003 murder. Given
ocean, canines, and oranges,
we made prison. The interns
love to watch trial like TV.
A shattered femur
and a video of a shattered
femur both hurt me.
I have nearly no
convictions, work-numbed.
No surprise—still, logic
sneers. It’s like no one here’s
ever heard an acoustic guitar
and laid down on the floor.
A broken necked deer
in the city, a stingray
picnic blanket. The cruelty
of weaning. Trying to end stop
this with tape. Screwing shut
my gut when I clock out.