Prognosis
Deborah Gaines

The young doctor swivels his screen 
to show us a horseshoe crab flipped on its back.
We stare at the scan, eyes burning,
but all I see is a messy oval,
veined with gray and scattered with lumps.
Some things can’t be explained,
like children in chain link cages
or a hamster eating its own young.
Or these profane swellings 
that crush even the memory of our time together.
My throat constricts as I choke on
the only possible question.
 





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