by Erin Cisney
sterile, cold, and stirruped
opposite side of the protest line
in my knee socks, black eyeliner cool.
this is a minor inconvenience,
waiting for a green light, a refill.
the doctor tells me to lie back and relax.
there’s a poster of Barcelona
on the ceiling. I think I’d like to see Italy
some day before the world ends.
I think I’d feel less complicated
in a country where I don’t understand
the language. just be young,
pretty and confused, that’s all they’ll ask of you.
isn’t this easy? yes, this is soooo easy.
lie down and be a good girl,
take your pills at the same time every day.
I think the doctor hates me, the way
her callous fingers dig in, rough,
while I grip the metal table, grit my teeth,
think of Barcelona, Atlantis, deep space.
I am anywhere else. I am nowhere.
inconsequential, could never be
more than a supporting role
in another's tragedy. with her back turned,
she tells me I won’t be leaving here
with my paper bag of pills, I’ve become
the worst part of her day at the office.
she suggests I go south, cross state lines
where a problem like mine can be solved
(and she doesn’t mean Barcelona).
I’m as hollow as an x-ray, could see
right through me. I’m a split lip, bled dry.
I have a pink paper folded in my back pocket
when I leave, it’s got an address in Maryland,
it’s got a doomsday countdown. a signholder
says this is no place for a kid like you.
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