Delta, Utah

I wanted Utah. Teresa of Ávila
wanted the spear and got it,
pierced heart to spine and drawn-
out: fire, god, sucking-chest-wound.

Wish, worry, wonder — terms
the oncologist murmured at us
in the family meeting. When god
closes a window she hinted she

tends to shut them all. Very soon,
there will be a plague. Very soon,
I will be inoculated. Please
transform me (overnight).

I wanted Utah, I wanted him
whole. He wanted to drive east
through Troy; he still wants to be
told. I still want to be picked up

from school when the pink towers
fall and the birds sing cat-cat-cat.
I will buy a one-way ticket. Will
walk back. Mercy Ships promise

re-section; my horse-locked legs
won’t buckle soon enough,
my yellow heart hangs filled
and emptying, cocooned in tissue 

strong as tongue and sharp
as the beak of the crow pecking
at the sign. Pill swallowed,
seizure threshold low, lowered,

crossed. The more I see the more
— I think I see the border.

ξ

Timothy Leo is an editor for Dialogist, a site of contemporary poetry. His work may be found in Conjunctions, Lana Turner, Narrative Magazine, and elsewhere. He serves as a member of the surgical house staff at the University of Chicago.