Dictionary 

by Grayson Mack

Without knowing why I don’t say I’m adopted 
when the doctor asks about my family history, 
instead I’m not biologically related looses itself 

from my lips. It tumbles out like a newborn calf
ready to run. All nature & instinct & slime.
An acrid sweetness is the aftertaste wallpapered

down the sides of my throat. Maybe charred 
marshmallow. Maybe no sweetness. Maybe
just glue. The doctor does not ask me to open wide

does not examine this chokeworthy shift in language 
as if my tonsils could be diagnostic. No, he unwraps 
the black tubing from his neck & wants to talk 

about my heart. When did I overwrite the dictionary
of my own heart, or is it of the brain? My blood pressure
is high but not worrisome-high, a high that makes sense

for a body in a clinic fessing up to its past failures
& pending apologies. The pressure is natural. 
Why did I honor biology instead of being someone 

else’s option? I’m adopted could be a pebble, smoothed 
over by decades of rolling around my mouth. I’m not 
biologically related could be last season’s chrysalis 

which calcified close to completion leaving it frozen 
in transition. An unfinished truth. A slippery fragment. 
I don’t speak to my parents but they are waiting for me

at every doctor’s appointment. The stale office air 
an antithesis to my mother’s aromatic kitchen 
& spatchcocked chicken roasting, my father’s oil-streaked 

denim despite the starching. My mother used to schedule 
all of my check-ups. Now, I betray her blood. 
The doctor says got it, moving on. We move on. 

::

Grayson Mack holds a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing with an emphasis on poetry and creative nonfiction from Grand Valley State University. Her work has appeared in like a field, Jarfly Magazine, Spilled Milk, and others, and was a Best of Net nominee. She lives and writes in Denver, Colorado.

Image: Etactics Inc

ID: Simple stethoscope on a pastel orange background.