After truth exiled itself to microscope lenses,
its transparency fully intact, nothing to tease
the eye into seeing, the skeptic joined
nature clubs, subscribed to scholarly journals,
eavesdropped on conversations at coffee shops.
She could find nothing deserving of her doubt.
When she was nineteen, she saved her best
friend’s life by doubting he had the guts
to swallow a handful of blues and reds. Her trust
fund of doubt enabled her to help her father
see all his flaws, kept her from declaring,
“I am,” escorted her through apartments
in thirty-one cities, dressed her differently
every week, taught her to laugh. She sits
outside listening to even jays screech disclaimers.