My doctor holds a vial of my blood up to the light like a kaleidoscope, turns it, shakes it, then hides it in his fist. He makes a finger gun with the other hand and shoots it. When he opens his fist, it’s gone. He pulls it back into the world from behind my ear and pours my blood into a dutch oven which he bakes for a few minutes while he waves a divining rod around my torso. “How’s your spam filter?” he asks. I put my hand on my side. “I can’t really feel it anymore.” The timer dings and when he lifts the lid the whole clinic smells like goulash. “Your late autumn light has stabilized,” he says, my improvements perplexing him. I inform him that I no longer partake. “Ah, that would do it,” he says. “You should also limit your intake of flattery.” Not really a problem, I tell him. “I can order a CT of your lusts if you want but check with your insurance first.” Here, he turns serious and meets my eyes with a practiced air of pity. “I’m afraid this means you’re probably going to live quite awhile longer.” I tell him I understand and begin rehearsing how I’m going to break this to my family.
Chad Rutter is an emerging poet originally from rural Nebraska now residing in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He received a BFA from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design and an MFA from the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities, both in visual art. His work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Right Hand Pointing.