The way the nurse sits with her hands
folded in her lap, her eyes small
in their puffy sockets. In her lilting
voice there is a sense of divineness.
My hands clasp a paper cup.
When the water’s gone, I chew
the edges. Please give me potion.
I want to say it. I know there was a time
I wanted to be plywood, swallow splinters
for breakfast, but look how empty
my hands are.
Does she gaze at my hands,
tracing the lines of my palm?
marbles of sweat, Girdle Of Venus.
I beg her to say that it means abandon
them and follow the beaded curtain
She puts her hand to my back
with the stethoscope, tells me to breathe
deep. Does she think I am
coming to worship with
the way my hands are splayed?
Look at this line, does it mean I
will be consumed by the cage
inside my body?
Dear line of health, finger of jupiter,
tell me something new. I am tired
of who I am in waiting rooms.
Haley Olds