When my brother visited the emergency room in seventh grade,
the doctors set the bones of his broken arm so tenderly
that I almost fell in love with the way they cradled it
in their palms, feeling for every crack and crevasse
that had split down the seams like a wishbone.
One doctor had eyes sadder than a black moon
and deeper than a river, and I could tell
by the way he hung up his coat
at the end of the day
that he only wanted to climb into bed.
The whole ride home my brother clutched his cast
excitedly, chattering about stitches and stents,
glass jars full of baby teeth,
but all I could think about
was how I wanted to reach into that doctor’s heart
with my own two hands, and remove the thorns
stuck in its sides,
so the blood could run free again.