The address is hand written
but that red private and confidential
always makes me shiver.
Turns out it’s not surgery
but a study in what’s gone wrong
with my history. Of course I will agree
to the braille of my blood
being read by storytellers in white coats.
It is the least I can do for the future
though the mystery of repeating grief
sometimes sits in my throat like a stone.
This brand new year I will try to open myself
to the double helix of resolution.
A candle held up to scratched glass,
a tale that twists in the telling.
I am not the narrator but then again
nor am I a helpless spectator.