by Mary Zhou
A boy,
though I should say man,
from that farm town of future doctors
is training to be one in this city.
He broke the heart of a friend,
another farm town doctor-to-be.
I broke mine on one
who was his friend, and her friend,
and once mine.
I was about to say I love you.
It rattled against my ribs
and as if sensing it
this friend read me
a Davis story that ended
with heartbreak and an old shirt.
In it, I love you was an awkward
obligation, to hear it back,
or to awkwardly not.
In it, pleasure did not make
pain worth it. Love was a mistake
one kept committing anyway.
I remembered visiting a patient
at church the other week;
the pastor had us all hug
and say I love you,
and there’s nothing you can do about it.
I did it then, but here I balk.
Speak now, or forever hold my piece.
I hold it in.
It shatters.
As I blink off my poem and look at the doctor,
I can’t help but see him, old boy, in the dark
beard, the gold-rim glasses, the soft voice.
The year must be too new;
I must have asked the cab for the wrong day.
The driver pushed the gas
and left me at the future.
My brain said, say any hospital but that, but that,
so my throat simply repeated the that.
This must be him,
(not the one I loved, but still a mutual connection point, a tangential reminder, like almost anything is–any cloud, bossa nova song, blue sedan, yellow shirt, old pair of sneakers, spiral shell, jar candle, blackberry bush, fine-tipped marker, tomato seedling, rolled sleeve, plate of scrambled eggs, burned CD, old kayak, receding figure in the rearview mirror)
a medical degree, a gold ring, and fine-lined decades later.
Here, he’s known me longer than I’ve been alive.
The white coat, old, old friend, turns his pockets inside-out.
And what could it be?
Acid Reflux. Heart Attack. Kidney Stone. Stomach Flu. Pregnancy.
Hard to know at this moment, he says, like a stranger.
He doesn’t know me after all.
He doesn’t know who we are, or when.
This is the stupidly correct hospital. Not his. It is today. It is this hour.
Mary Zhou (they/she) is a Philadelphia-based artist curious about devotion and identity. Their work has been supported by VONA/Voices and is shared or forthcoming in Foglifter, ANMLY, and The Rumpus, among others. Find more at marzhou.com or IG @maryzzzhou.
This poem previously appeared in ANMLY.