Unremarkable

The doctor said it like a gift—

unremarkable, meaning nothing wrong,

meaning you are free to go, meaning

the blood is doing what blood does.

I drove into the parking garage

and stopped.

Ticket on the dash. 11:47.

Engine on because I hadn't turned it off.

I said the word out loud.

It sat in the car with me

the way a stone sits in your mouth

when you're trying not to say the other thing.

Unremarkable. Forty-one.

All my levels where they ought to be,

my heart a dull and adequate machine.

I know what the word means.

I know what the alternative means.

I sat there anyway, engine running,

in the concrete dark, timestamp ticking,

not moving yet.