They Are Waiting
       

For blood work. For a sign.
For fancy x-rays that will map out
which parts of me went wrong, and where.
You can't travel to me.

They are waiting for me to straighten up, fly right
into the waiting V in a sky of snow geese.
They are waiting for me to get better. Me too.
While we wait, the pink tulips begin drooping,

the weight of their petals shedding in the dark.
Me too. They are waiting, but I can't tell them
what they want to hear. They can't hear me
when my body sings, vibrates a melody

tense and uneven. What was it you said to me once?
They don't have statistics for people like me?
No map. No statistics. No hard facts.
So don't count on me to give you the exposé,

the real story. Inside my mouth I keep the whispers
of ghosts. White feathers begin to fall, heavy,
like the tulips' petals. If you wait long enough,
maybe I'll reveal to you the trick to survival
in a body humming with death. I'm waiting too.

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Copyright © 2020 Jeannine Hall Gailey All rights reserved
from Boulevard
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission