Stefanie Wortman

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The staggered line of teeth pushing back toward
their original chaos, the bracelets of condensation
left on tables, cameos of chipped pottery, clothes
turning into moth-lace and a lace of broken threads.
It’s easy to think everything is a disaster, but then,
look how lucky I’ve been in this body. And you,
though your scars are worse for lack of stitching,
though you swear it’s since you lost that lucky
lighter that your luck’s gone sour, act like those
too-healthy doctors who don’t believe in conditions
like Lyme disease or fibromyalgia. As far as they
know, the aches come from a dozen causes or none.
And this two-lane highway so accident-ready
the sign we just passed nicknamed it Blood Alley—
it’s clearly exaggeration. Even those twinges
in the ankle, those rills of pain that piss me off,
aren’t enough to address to medicine or God.

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