Specula-ation

I know it is September.

The fatalistic urge to call my doctor

Pleads with me to do it.

Triage is needed so—

The tears are too great to heal.

The crimson tide of autumn’s crowning glory, Americana,

The mourning black of losing seasons all,

And the moldy smell of stale old books

Beckon me to some unknown University,

While procreantic currents dare me

To marry the only one I’ve ever loved.

I fight the urge.

I can’t call her again this year.

She’ll laugh and call me silly.

But I know that I will wind up there

By September 23^rd.

I’ll be reading her out-of-date magazines,

Adrift in the sterile waiting room,

Awaiting the stirrups, the specula,

And the latexed, cold, right hand.

The pap smear will come back normal,

But maybe my head’s what needs attention,

Then again, maybe I need more regular pelvic exams.

What’s done is done,

And I know that,

And try not to live in the past with regrets,

For I am the type that would second guess,

No matter what choice I made.

So maybe “September” is Latin for

“I feel that I am dying,”

Just like “Ficus” is Latin for “a tree that dies in the house.”

A month of monument for world without end!

Yes, I know it is September.

So, here’s to those roads taken, and those less traveled by.

-jenn long