I.
Almost two days since the test,
three since Adam freaked out on me,
and since I lost my virginity.
At least none of us have shown any sign of TB,
wonder what James’s skin would show,
wonder if he’s sick.
After school,
we sit in the waiting room,
the nurse wheels Dad
down the hall.
Tall, blond,
all cheekbones,
clothes hang off him.
Two lesions on his forehead.
A disease that hides,
then eats people alive.
We follow behind,
past a child with a broken leg,
a pregnant woman breathing loudly.
II.
Outside.
Several empty cabs pass us by.
Do they see the lesions? Are they scared?
One stops.
I wonder,
does the driver care that Dad’s here,
breathing, in his space?
III.
We struggle into the lobby,
James holding up one side of Dad,
Mom, the other.
We share the elevator
with the woman from 14B.
She doesn’t look at Dad.
Doesn’t look at his lesions
or his skinny, bruised arms,
the way he cannot hold himself up.
She ignores all of us.
Finally, home.
Dad looks at his nightstand,
scattered with crystals—
blinking hopes of healing—
his own shelf of tiny purple cities.
Says okay, he’ll try the herbs.
Relief and fear
pulse through my veins.
April smiles wide.
Mom tells us nice work, they’re beautiful,
fetches Dad tissues for his coughing,
James rests in the reading chair,
Dad lays down to sleep.