Behind the glowing screen the doctor nods. Terminal, yes,
she says. The farmer tugs a small notebook from his shirt
pocket. Will you sign this? he asks. The doctor snakes a
stethoscope around her neck. Applies a daub of lip balm.
You could write anything, he says. Like, thanks for being my
patient. Or, gosh, I love your knees. At home there’s a sack of
potatoes on the counter. The farmer invites the neighbors
to a party. They play Hot Potato in a field. Toss the little
guys late into the night. The wind rattles the windows.
Then there’s just two men left throwing a burning hand.

ANDREW DOLL is a queer poet and collage artist living in Portland, Oregon. His poems live (or are soon to live) in The Buckman Journal, HAD, Painted Bride Quarterly, Lurch, Sugar House Review, and Ink in Thirds.