Amanda Hawk
DOCTOR
Doctor enters the room with hypoallergenic smile
and stethoscope noose.
His gaze is sterile, and he opens up my charts
to expand the volume of my waist.
He asks me if I like cake, and I shake my head no
I ask about the pain- the last flair up of cellulitis
rests in my nerves between my hip and knee.
Whenever I move my leg, it comes alive
in an army of snaps and spasms.
The doctor talks to me about Mediterranean
and hands me a piece of paper
full of low sodium shores and romaine resorts.
I ask again about the pain and its cripple kiss
which has left me off balance and a gradual growing limp.
He wants to discuss an exercise routine of small walks around the park.
I pull out my fitbit, and show him the map of electronic steps.
He talks about kale, and I show him pictures from 5Ks.
The doctor tells me I need to stop eating,
and I tell him I want to discuss the pain in my legs.
It hums and strums my muscles every time I move,
and my legs tighten as the pain cinches its grip tighter.
He tells me I need to stop eating cake,
and plucks my blood pressure from my chart and pins it to my chest,
then tells me he wants to retest me for diabetes, because my results must be wrong.
His face bloats and whitens, while his chest fluffs and expands
with his monotone speech on personal health.
His jacket drips over his frame in white frosting and he jerks my
arm into the blood pressure machine then squeezes me tighter and tighter.
I ask the doctor again about the pain, and he asks me-
Don’t you want to be thin; don’t you want to disappear-
then he shoves my hands full dietary pamphlets
and pushes me out the door into my fear.
He calls me a week after our appointment to talk diet plans
and I tell him I am limping now, and I miss weekends
dancing until my feet screamed my name and my body soared to the beat.
The doctor tells me he is going to prescribe me blood pressure pills.
The clinic sends me a text to ask to rate my service.
I respond with the word afraid over and over again,
and my mobility declines more and more each day.
I don’t give them number ratings
but leave emojis of crutches, skulls, needles and legs.
My fear keeps me company at the phone receiver,
while I wait for them to call about the pain
and my hands shake with the realization they will never respond.
I find the doctor on Yelp with sugar sweet smile
and the crumbs of his words settle upon my keyboard.
I wrap my legs in diet pamphlets but they still throb
and wobble with each step, but fingers work fine
with rage clatter speed and grim smile determination
And I type I hate cake, I hate cake, I hate cake
again and again, while I look
him straight in the eyes.