the delicate arrangement of unavoidable sorrow

At the clinic, the path to the nurse with the syringe in her hand was festooned with signs. It took no time to get through the answers — “No,” “No,” “No,” “No,” “No” — before the clipboard came down and I was pointed toward table number 6. It was, dare I say, almost cheerful, the processions of new arrivals, the summer-hued short-sleeve shirts rolled to the tip of bare shoulders, volunteers on circuitous rounds in the waiting area, spray bottles clipped to their waists. It was only later, midnight, waking to the cry of my body as it wrestled with the angel serum inside it…