Upon Seeing Two Checkboxes under Sex at the Doctor’s Office

Yesterday, lightning split the forest like a knife.
Julienned the birches until they were no longer
birches. I threw out the fallen branches, and
they exited the world without a sound—except
for the wind, who was mourning the birds,
and sweeping their bodies into the
lake, that forgot it was a lake, and flooded
the cabin along the shore. The land
was tender and breathing, the radio skipped
for four seconds, then went on about
destruction. Toppled power lines, dying,
highway closures, dying. Numbers kept
rising, but we didn’t need math to be grieving.
We could have everything and still be hurt.