Michael Tyrell I’m stuck again, not bleeding like a stuck pig but waiting for results in the HMO waiting room, stuck where praying is more counting than praying. The mother puts her finger to her small lips, quieting her small boy. Her small boy locks his lips with the invisible key, drops it to the floor. Keep your eyes peeled, my mother once told me. Bug-gut smeared on the leaves of Prevention, the crossword done. Rolled up my...