Second Opinion

Amanda Gomez

You tilt your head towards me asking: What becomes of our bodies?

With pleading enticement, I offer a Snickers in my hands.

You want a bite? I ask, evading the question. And your voice,

more understanding than I expected, embraces a sadness

I don’t understand. No thanks, you say and we continue

our exchange: you layering your sweaters in your suitcase,

me softening my tongue against my palate, searching for words

other than terrified and afraid. Instead, I say, Absolutely nothing

fucking happens. You’re just going in for a second opinion. Quit talking

about dying. How do you think I feel? Maybe get me some marijuana.