i
Denver I.C.U. The nurse called it a grave condition. A doctor
told me that you were a young woman with a dead liver. No one
needed to tell me why you weren’t on the transplant list. No one
knows. It’s not their fault.
Everyone waited for me to ask. Everyone needs to tell me
why you’re not on the transplant list. They don’t know why
they’re right about that. I know they’re right about that but they
don’t know that that’s why. It’s their job to tell me they do. It’s in
their stance. They’re ready for me to object. To argue, to resist.
To object: I know that accent is on the first syllable. The nurses
and doctors don’t know that. It’s not their fault. I won’t argue,
demand reasons. I’ve long known there are no reasons. It doesn’t
matter. Their job isn’t to know why. I won’t óbject you Kate. Their
job isn’t to know why, it’s to tell me why. It’s a grave situation. In
grave situations, I learn, it’s important to listen & listen & not to
let the things said get in the way of what I hear.
vi
Salida, CO. The roof of your jeep must be up on the
mountainside near the tree line in Tim’s garage. We’re not going
back for it. The night before we go to the Angel, we drive up to
Leadville and back looking for orange and blue thread you need
for something you have to do immediately. A custom-made
margarita in a stainless coffee mug in your hand: “I told him it
needed more Grand Marnier.” I drove. Somewhere along the
way, heat blasting past us & out the open jeep, the mountain sky
turned to black steel & swung open its empty mouth. The line of
your face pushed against the tongue of the night. The air tastes
blue & plays our heads like cold flame. The dark line of your face
pushes into bright black steel. A shut-eyed face hidden by a night
wing. A serrated song with a split tongue of onyx feathers.
