Poetry: Lightsey Darst

Questions to ask your family doctor

But just a second: what part of this proves I’m alive? I incline to the opposite of
solipsism, i. e., the same thing, a me-shaped hole in the system

of ballgames & strippers with leather chaps & low-grade housing. Whatever the score, we
are not part of the report, are the left-out, average, unchanged, tranquil

reader. “There was a war on. I’d heard of GIs, but skimmed love poems, skipped news.
Now the bombing of a temple is a part of my courtship—Buddhas of Bamiyan—

still I never met a casualty.” Afraid we’re too complacent about politics, sure
no good will come of it anyway I paid, voted, woke & was holding a gun—this one here,

smoking & empty, while everyone around phones home. Isn’t true nothing
changes—my mother gets older, weeds grow, friends bury their darling

& the question remains, are you a force for good in the world?
“America is a force for good in the world.” Body armor & bullets, missile shield

My paper reminds me to end. I deny nothing. What can one be sure of? Partake
of the family picnic. God knows where the meat comes from. Break the wonder bread.

Monkeys think, moving artificial arm as own
Adieu. Desire to be better educated.

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