Tested

First time. Throat swab,
not the brain-scraping
nostril poke. I drive up,
speak to a nurse
in semi-biohazard suit
who does the deed,
a minor penetration,
provides a code
for checking my results.
From there, it’s a weekend
of pause stretching
through Monday.
No reason to expect,
I tell myself, but worry
because not knowing
is a kidney stone
that stabs as it passes.
Three days I do this
until word comes,
one word: the sound
of a serpent
sliding through long grass
while I stand
at the other end of a field,
not listening,
letting go the breath
I’ve held too long.

Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021). His poem shave appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Harvard Review, Notre Dame Review, and many other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble.