Four Hours

The birds don't understand fasting.

The waiting room window

is going gray and I'm thirsty,

my mouth like paper,

my stomach held in reserve

for the needle,

for the looking inside.

Four hours of not sleeping

and now they start—

their small songs,

their casual insistence

that morning is something

to celebrate.

I want to hate them for it,

for acting like the sun coming back

is a gift

and not a problem.

But they just sing.

The light keeps coming.

And I sit here

with my empty stomach

and my full dread,

waiting for the nurse

to call my name,

knowing she will,

knowing the day

won't stop

just because I'm not ready.