The Appointment
Sherry Wittman
The vet had a black eye.
Variations of spotty yellows and purples.
I distracted myself with this oddity,
wondering if he were a drunk,
or a victim of domestic violence.
In a sterile white room,
my nostrils burned from ammonia.
What I saw there was not much different
from the doctor’s mottled face.
The lungs that should have been clear
were riddled with darkness, and I knew.
I knew it as clearly as a mother
knows the cry of her own child.
I heard nothing but the sound of earth
crumbling away beneath my feet.
Then,
because I had nothing left,
I turned to him and asked,
“What happened to your eye?”
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