Once upon a time
I answered questions
about my masks, awarded prizes
on the tip of my tongue
for certain answers.
First place, easy choice.
My canned explanation:
I have cystic fibrosis.
Eyes go wide, a baby deer
still innocent of death
living inside their own borders.
The glass between us,
concrete and thicker in abstract,
stops me cold
before her next words
get the chance.
Oh! I’m so sorry.
Picture a house of horrors,
haunted and teeming.
That’s terrible.
A faucet filling oceans,
drop by drop.
I hope you get better.
Picture a shovel, digging in dirt—
only way out is down.