Casey Zella Andrews
ANTI-ODE TO THE MYCHART LETTERS FEATURE
Every time “Dear
which is kind of
funny if you
think about it
because to the
medical
industrial complex I
am more of a Deer,
Slick brown hair,
big dumb eyes, long
working legs, breath
running and running.
How
that feels. The diagnosis,
of well,
everyone is
going to die one
day.
I’m checking
the app from all
of the cars I used to
drive. There was
going to be an end
to it all yet
here I am
I killed
one of my Deer,
sisters and she survived.
Lost a leg. That
was two cars
ago. Alive,
singing. Well.
Not really. Like
if the windshield
went through my
wind —
Never mind. I’m just
a jester of spots. A
kid. I’m just Macbeth.
Whose the one who
dies? Not, I. You must know,
There’s just this —
I start responding,
I only hold this one body, not two.
I Vessel,
I slipping skeleton. Bones
clicking, inhuman. Ovaries making
more eggs than
normal. No one
wants
to think they’ll die young.
I’m thinking: die,
live, same consequence.
Dear,
thanks for telling
me I’m still chest
heaving. The scan of the intestines,
right kidney, gallbladder,
liver,
ribcage, abdominal
wall, uterine lining,
caesarean scar,
they’re all normal
that’s ok,
I’m better off, hope you’re
not having not wondering about
this body. These results.
This deer
carcass I keep
climbing into at
night.
This dear meat.”