i liked dr. lawrence, the woman with
an eccentric jamaican heritage (there is breadfruit
in her fridge) and with an extreme liking to
motivational posters and you can tell by
the cross she’s pinned to her breast as well as
the longing twitch of her fingertips
that jesus holds her hand every now and then
and yes, those high heels pinch
her ankles but they give her a sense of confidence,
a coiled bun and eyes that narrow into
serpentine slits.
she snaps my wrist, once, twice,
“ah, maybe more medicine
will do the trick.” (hair springs from her head with every
tug of her lips) and she scrubs her hands
with soap and water (gloves are meant for
those cliché doctors down the hall), adjusts her wrinkled blouse
and scribbles red words discreetly inside
a manila folder, although sometimes i imagine her scrawling
on the dampening walls instead
and her stocking is bunching up
by her calf in humble little folds,
she is clenching her pulsing fist beside her hip and
there is red lipstick plastered
to her teeth but I cannot bring myself to inform her that
she is the one who is
unraveling.