by Marina Rubin
Legs spread open, deep, disturbing thoughts gallop
through my body, shivering, biting hard my laces,
questions, plaques… balloons and orange curls –
that picture of a clown across the examination table
had tormented me forever. The sweet archaic Dr. Myers
must have been a’hundred, practicing medicine back
when hysteria was still a disease of a floating uterus.
With his trembling hands in latex gloves and bifocals,
he’d say: “Gees, gosh, golly, honey, all is ticking, no woe”
And then one day – a letter “..retired..come..see..new..”
I went, I saw him – the smooth wonder doctor, Camp,
he must have just started shaving. Like an eagle-scout,
his hands were here-there-everywhere, with such vigor,
as if he was building a house, and that clown, that clown
smirking back at me, my moon open for the world to see.
There was nothing wrong with Camp’s eyes either,
in fact, he saw too well, everything was always bad.
I would stand in the hallway, weeping – am I dying.
He would caresses me on the shoulder – oh no, we just
need to run some more tests, you have such a nice fur
coat. I thought about it, meeting him accidentally
in a bar, or in a bookstore, seducing him, destroying,
but what would I bargain with, what mysteries,
all my delicate secret charms already unveiled.