To Be Seen

Forgive me for taking the tone of a preacher.

You understand, a dying man

Must have a point—not that I am

Dying exactly. My doctor tells me I’ll live

Longer than most since I see him

More than most. Of course, he cannot be trusted

Nor can any man

Who promises you life for looking his way. Promises

Come from the chosen: a lunatic,

The whitest dove—those who hear

The voice of God and other old music. I’m not

Chosen. I only have a point like anyone

Paid to bring bad news: a preacher, a soldier,

The doctor. We talk about God

Because we want to speak

In metaphors. My doctor clings to the metaphor

Of war. It’s always the virus

That attacks and the cells that fight or die

Fighting. Hell, I remember him saying the word

Siege when a rash returned. Here

I am dying while

He makes a battle of my body—anything to be seen

When all he really means is to grab me by the chin

And, like God the Father, say through clenched teeth,

Look at me when I’m talking to you.

Your healing is not in my hands, though

I touch as if to make you whole.