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Denver I.C.U. The nurse called it a grave condition. A doctor told me that you were a young woman with a dead liver. No one needed to tell me why you weren’t on the transplant list. No one knows. It’s not their fault.

Everyone waited for me to ask. Everyone needs to tell me why you’re not on the transplant list. They don’t know why they’re right about that. I know they’re right about that but they don’t know that that’s why. It’s their job to tell me they do. It’s in their stance. They’re ready for me to object. To argue, to resist. To object: I know that accent is on the first syllable. The nurses and doctors don’t know that. It’s not their fault. I won’t argue, demand reasons. I’ve long known there are no reasons. It doesn’t matter. Their job isn’t to know why. I won’t óbject you Kate. Their job isn’t to know why, it’s to tell me why. It’s a grave situation. In grave situations, I learn, it’s important to listen & listen & not to let the things said get in the way of what I hear.  

 

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Salida, CO. The roof of your jeep must be up on the mountainside near the tree line in Tim’s garage. We’re not going back for it. The night before we go to the Angel, we drive up to Leadville and back looking for orange and blue thread you need for something you have to do immediately. A custom-made margarita in a stainless coffee mug in your hand: “I told him it needed more Grand Marnier.” I drove. Somewhere along the way, heat blasting past us & out the open jeep, the mountain sky turned to black steel & swung open its empty mouth. The line of your face pushed against the tongue of the night. The air tastes blue & plays our heads like cold flame. The dark line of your face pushes into bright black steel. A shut-eyed face hidden by a night wing. A serrated song with a split tongue of onyx feathers.