"I'm sorry to tell you this,"
the doctor said,
white-cloaked,
peering over his half-glasses,
holding his laptop open
but turned toward me so I could see the screen.
"Here," he pointed,
"this mass, these tendrils…"

The image looked to me
like an amorphous, gray blur.

"This is obliquity…
as is this…
and this."

"It's what?" I asked.

"Obliquity.
Not as rare as you might think these days."
He slowly closed the computer,
removed his glasses,
and turned to me:
"O-
bli-
qui-
ty."
He broke the word into four chunks,
as if the meaning would suddenly dawn.
It didn't.

I felt panic rising.
"Good Lord," I said,
"I have obliquity."
I didn't know what it was,
but I was certain it would do me in.
"Doc, give it to me straight–
how much time do I have?""

To listen to this poem  Download Obliquity 1

Text, image and audio © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.