tell them that / even now // you cannot stand animals. / tell them / your stomach / is a kind of animal / as is your shoes
11. How we are nothing but memories collaborating with a body.
I remember when the songwriter came into that little hospital, three fingers short on one hand and three extra in the palm of the other, not a tear in his eyes.
“In Japan, they can put ‘em back on, good as new, I hear,” he said hopefully.
“This is Waco,” the doctor replied. “I can sew you up, but I can’t fix you up.”