Surviving the Transplant, Verbatim

She bounces back up
at the ping
possibly her boyfriend
as I notice the mark
on her forehead.
"A resident hit me,"
she says of the red
bobbing back down
for silence
more than me.

I tune out nerve endings
to hone in on the pattern:
A symmetrical stitch
perfect in its rendering.
She coughs mid-stride
so I make her laugh
against our stubborn will:
"Enter sickly Jew, stage left."

Afterward I inquire
of its origin.
"A bible," she protests
predicting my sad ecstasy.

Two sodomites giggle
in the throes of late white wine
as I chant "King James Version!"
and pretend to slap a face
that I'll never earn
in earnest.

[This is how the terminally ill
joke about the terminally ill
with the terminally ill
and we're all terminally ill
you idiot.]