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,

getting up,

singing each morning

like June, all the notes

just beyond being in tune.