CALL ME BELOVED

Cameron Martin, returning client –
six foot three, underweight, vitals normal,
old enough to catch classroom chickenpox –
my gender? Snowy mornings & flannel sheets,
no option for that so I’ll just check ‘other’ – no,
I lack any significant history from my father
and no fleas from my mother, but heavens,
the stories I could tell… And sure, I’ll concede
for all intents and purposes I’m doing “well.”
(Yes, I am seeing a therapist.)

Past medical history significant for some
ear infections at three that screamed louder
than the rest of the world, now I hear
too much; midnight brings soft whispers.
Bullies peppered me with scars, there’s
four that you can see – skin a tapestry
of cigarette burns, freckles, road rashes –
heart thrashing out an irregular beat –
I’m told it’s concerning on ECGs but just
familiar and sustaining, to me. My bones
tell stories, ice patches that snared me –
the hills I’ve rolled down, carelessly, the
compounding cost of chronic clumsiness
pre-arthritic joints confess my true age,
this soul has slogged through centuries.

Oh, lots of concerns, doctor. Innumerable and
nothing that’s present to check on your form,
but I’ve left you my memoir in the margins.
No new medications, just some vitamin D
since I’m still learning to step into sunlight –
it’s harsh and it burns; I shy from spotlights –
and I meant to ask, have you ever wept from
the impossible glow of a springtime sunrise?
Signs the antidepressant is working too well
or not enough? Can you validate my surprise
that the sunrise happened at all? Or at least
my parking?