OK, so the first poem in the book
is called "My Hand and Cold."
Of surgeons putting their knives to erroneous body parts,
stories abound.
So can you really blame my neighbor
for how, heading into the operation,
he wrote across his good knee, "not this knee"?
The death of me.
I'm never half so bold.
"You will feel," the doctor said, "my hand and cold."
And I thought of the pub quiz question,
which three countries are entirely inside
of other countries?
I bought the bound 1,000 Names for Baby,
made two lists, one if she's born breathing, one if not.
The second list was longer, so much that I might call her,
if she were never to bear the name, never to turn to it,
suffer shaming, mull its range and implications,
blame it, change it, move away to San Marino,
Vatican City, Lesotho.