Whelp

My best friend's boyfriend banged up 

his knee while bouldering recently. 

He spent the rest of Sunday on the couch. 

Unexpectedly unfucked, she left me 

a moody voice note: Why are men 

such little bitches whenever they 

get hurt? Mommy issues seems 

too obvious an answer, especially in Spain.

And then I was too busy feeling smug

in my good health and selective memory 

to seriously consider her inquiry. 

The universe, though, was listening (of course) 

so last night (at bouldering, of course) I bruised 

a rib for the first time in my life. Jesus Christ. 

I thought I'd just pulled my pec until I woke up 

in the middle of the night barely able to breathe,

much less get out of bed. Thousands of miles 

from my mom, no less. It was only halfway through 

leaving a voice note in reply that the poetry

of the irony of the self-pity sank in. 

The old saying about karma came back.

If she’s another bitch, then we’re her unweaned whelps

snuffling blindly under her tired teats 

in search of a drop of sympathy.