HOSPICEThe ginkgos look sicklike the citrus I’ve let roton the kitchen island—their other name’s maidenhair. When I ran my fingers through it,she said, Knock me out, please,put me in a fucking coma. MILTONIC RADIOLOGYIts teardrop shape eludes me,an abnormalityor a variation of normal—my father’s favorite phraseto mitigate worry, placate me. I’ve never wantedto be as close to Godas Milton was,yielding to his willto get around feelings. Abstract like my womb wasuntil this precise moment of paintethering me to now.