'Vaccine'
The soapy smell of Lysol Permeating the air My cough is smothered by a tissue. A doctor gives me a heart with his stethescope. When I was a child I loved the hospital. Buxom nurses in pastels A shot in the arm and a lollipop Because I did not cry. The vaccine raced through miles Of muscle; the needle cutting in Like a jealous lover on a waltz. Just like that I was cured. See what a good little girl I am? If only I were five again, My sickness impaled on a sterile point. Coming home, my house reeked of fear, Not that lovely hospitable bleach. Going home from the hospital Is like leaving home for a foreign place. Still a child, nearly a woman, With breasts and marrow and blood, An unfinished story, an abstract painting Like those hanging on hospital walls. I am an ugly peice of art in a staccato frame, Still awaiting my vaccine. Written February 6th, 2002 © on Feb 06 2002 10:36 AM PST 18 • 0 • 10
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"The soapy smell of Lysol..."