An illness, or an injury, is, or can be, the body's way of expressing doubt:
my jammed fingers, your infection and grumbling gut. At the Walmart
(again), when you need the cranberry supplements, and when
I make a suggestion about what might be a better place to park the
car and sleep, you get your pills, but I get shut down.
I am hoarse, psychosomatically, and tired all the time,
and get psychosomatic headaches that reveal to me
disappointing similarities between myself and my father.
And in the Virgin River, where we're playing with the current,
crawling upstream against it, then capitulating and letting
ourselves be borne back down, my left middle and ring fingers
hit a rock and are bent almost backward. (A sharp, distinct feeling,
not past week's dead irritation.) Two days later, the bruise is still growing.
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