Every Time an Ortho Asks

Today at three with an orthopedic surgeon,

he’ll ask how it happened. Which truth version

shall I reveal—repeatedly beaten with a baseball bat

or my body used for throw-away stunts.

Anxiety envelops me like a pod covers green peas;

I do not wish to explain—I’d rather be in Belize.

Does the ortho need the truth, to what degree?

I don’t want to answer why I didn’t flee.

Why give a complete history—it’s been four decades.

I desire medical care, no masquerades.

My truths buried for years, I am called to spill the dinkum oil,

of knives, guns, and baseball bats make anyone recoil.

Questions and memories race as if they’re in a contest,

remembering when medical care was an impossible quest.

Bruises faded, but battle scars remain wholly unseen.

I cringe at chance noises that should be routine.

Waiting, reliving nightmares from long ago,

silence amplifies a pounding heart, not slow.

I’m still repairing the impairments of brutal years

And tho, I am a vessel of courage—it’s okay for tears.