Magazines worn soft by worry
spill at our feet as I leave you
to join experts for my verdict.

Doctors in white coats see
numbers, words scrawled
on paper, an image on film.

I am only that milk-white
moon on my retina
where no light should be.

Lesion, uveal, metastasis.
I can’t repeat those sounds
for you in that waiting room.

Let’s go for coffee, I say,
as if coffee could resurrect
yesterday. Now, before us

on white saucers, cups sit
untouched. It’s not good,
I murmur. My bleached

voice stutters statistics,
predictions that collide
with our spreadsheet

of next year’s milestones.
I sink, seeking bottom. You
extend your hand. I notice

the rise, the fall of the white
button hanging too loose
from your shirt, the liquid

outline of your eyes. This I can
see, not our muted tomorrow.