I’ll be fine.
Yeah, I’m insured by your words—
covered for all fatalities
and breakdowns—
when you tell me
we will always live;
breathe together,
blood emanating from one to the other,
coursing through veins
of violet and blue.
I follow the road map
of your wrists
as we make teamwork of cellular respiration.
But I guess you wanted so desperately
to rip out the IV
and stand out, ordinary.
Drive the ambulance away,
searching for Oh positive.
Breathe alone.
To bleed fine.

Enter a doctor’s office
and one superficially wishes
to be fine
normal
all systems go.
But no one really wants
that. No one sticks
a syringe in normal.
So we desire more,
crave the title of universal donor,
the diagnosis of a tumor, or cancer.
We want extraordinary,
not fine.
Because fine is less than nothing.