In my human disease class the other week we learned

        about ischemia– a fatal imbalance of

blood and oxygen that leads to

        “myocardial infarction”

It’s a mess of clinical terms, sterile

        in their meaninglessness

latin roots that clot the mouth like pebbles

        between teeth and pliers around tongue

(I think medicine is ischemic–

separating the organs from the mind that controls them

with textbooks and diagrams and pebble-mouthed latin

and the hands of the mortician who never

sees the face of the patient, who never

hears the story of the patient, who only

reads the diagnosis written beneath lifeless tissue)

But you had a face–

        it was long, stubble like moss sprung from

        a mouth that mimicked the monkey

        you had tattooed on your arm

And you had a story–

        it was short, shaped by your guitar-calloused hands

        and the plaid swim trunks you’d wear when you

        ran to the ocean without warning

(I wonder if you wore them)

You died from ischemia,

a fatal imbalance.

The world wasn’t big enough for your soul

and you always had to bend your head

as you entered our kitchen for second helpings of dinner

The world wasn’t big enough for your heart

and all your philosophical ponderings

            your impromptu rough housing

            your free frisbee spirit

weren’t much for paying bills and

You’d be alone at the end of the day.

You liked being alone, but not being lonely.

The world’s inadequacy seeped into your veins

        and no doctor could find the infection

        and no lover could extract the poison

so you decided to do it yourself

taking your life

choosing blood over oxygen

to restore some balance

                  that escapes diagnosis

(I wonder if they looked at your face)