“It’s okay,” the doctor said,
And his eyes were lights in windows.
“You don’t need, ‘fixing up’, or changing.
You’ll be fine with your slightly curved spine.”
“Is this true?” I ask incredulously,
My voice a clear-eyed sky.
“I hear that people die.”
“Why, no! Not true, my darling, there are lots of folks out there
Whose spines are less than straightest,
And they’re not worse for wear.
Their hair is curled,
Their eyes are waved,
And their spines are curved and loopy.
But their blossoms face the sky,
Far from mud-crowned and droopy.”
“But I’m not a spine, I’m Hope.
I’m not just a crooked spine!”
He smiles. “No, you’re not, my darling, just a crooked spine.
Your spine is part of you.
Your voice has rang out sweet and clear
But you are not a shrew.
You’re more you than anything, but you’ve got a crooked spine.
You’ve got yours and I’ve got mine.”