It’s not MS, she said,
as we held our breath—
my knee slow to show reflex,
my shoulder collapsing when pressed.
I went in for what I thought was a trap pull,
for what I still can only describe as cadaver-like
cold patches piss-streaming my legs, for her to hold
my hand and say it’s all going to be okay. Instead, I found
her single negative halting, haunting in the glare of winter daylight—painroot wrought from spine and scapula to each of my carpal bones. It’s not MS—a definitive from which came many derivatives:
a stack of vials alive with me, poems about sunrise
not about bright beginnings.