Grace, Waiting to be X-rayed (Poetry)

They want to take her picture — see inside
and find the part of her they fear is broken —
she’s lolling in her wheelchair, slyly slipping through
the buckled straps that keep her untidy body
angled now, limbs withered thin from little use
and splayed, undisciplined —
boneless as a ragdoll’s dragging feet
then kicking out at nothing.

She talks and talks and talks...
incessant babble rising, falling, turned
from a whisper-soft confiding, hardly heard
to an angry rant that threatens — like she feels
the wait’s too long and pointless — why’s she here?
what’s there to find that matters anymore?
The nurse placates her, easy with old words
to soothe the witless, charm her into quiet.

Grace bides her time, the mumble in her grows
erupting in a chant — she shouts a list
of all the things she hates about the world —
her logic lost, her understanding gone
except for rage that cannot be contained
her grievances uncounted by the nurse
who’s flicking through a glossy magazine
and has no answers for her anyway.