WAXING CRESCENT MOON, 7 DAYS LEFT
Friends chant in the hallway:
count down the days,
the hours,
till prom,
graduation.
My clock counts time by T cells,
which seem to be holding for now:
dancing needles,
crystals around his neck,
the smell of sage hanging
in the apartment air.
I count time by platelets
and Dad is at 5,000—
only one-thirtieth the amount
of a healthy person.
Do I dare
at 5,000 platelets
with no date
pick out a dress?
Do I dare
look to the future?
rush across the sun?
gallop past the moon?