part of a story-poem memoir, when I was nine
I never heard
of an orthopedist
until my father
takes me
after the fall
on the playground
and why has he brought
my Baby Ann doll
her plastic fingers
and face
look more smudged
than ever
in the glaring fluorescent light
of the exam room
where I sit
too embarrassed
and in too much pain
to say
I am not eight anymore
I am too old
for dolls now
the orthopedist
looks grim
while surveying
X-rays
of my poor left arm
against the light
not broken
in the typical place…
an injection
for what’s about to come
it does no good, really
the orthopedist
braces himself
against the table
grips my damaged arm
with both of his hands
and pulls
and pulls
and pulls
my feral scream
comes of its own accord
that’s when Daddy
cries out
STOP. STOP.
— the orthopedist stops
he wipes his forehead
Daddy is pale
so pale
his blue eyes
animal bright
(in later years
he will say
I couldn’t stand
that man
but I knew
in the moment
he could not stand
my pain)
he stands there
clutching Baby Ann
who smiles at me
in her plastic way
she cannot help me now
but maybe
she’ll get Daddy through
lit bits and pieces 