I remember a doctor who wasn’t mine,
flitting through when the sun broke
new, perching briefly on my narrow bed,
that mattress I was matted on.
She was a woman first, so she sang
to the babe of me, bloomed
with hellos and yellow light, voiced
the day’s encompassing night.
I want to die her way,
singing each morning
like June, all the notes
just beyond being in tune.