Perfect by Amana Akhtar, M.D.

Father begs God and Mother sobs outside the glass as

the doctors tear into your body and rip away your silky,

flawless skin.  You spew the most gorgeous shade of crimson,

as they swivel your head toward me, mouth

streaked with black charcoal.

Eyes roll back into your head and I see silver-cool nothingness;

the synchronized acutely pitched beeps shift

into a shrill monotone coda.  Mother bursts in, struck by the

absoluteness of the line on the monitor. Father falls to his knees and

crosses himself, in spaces parallel and perpendicular:

forehead/ sternum/ left/ right.

Beyond the glass, behind where Father prays, closed

captioning of the casualty room TV

reads, “threw a perfect game today.” My work here is done.

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