Strawberry crushed
into the white linen tablecloth:
a bullet hole in ivory skin,
a pretty puncture into
the centre of the table;
this is the entrance wound,
the pulpy opening
through which my interest
bleeds.

The next morning

Stepping into the shower
my skin smells of martini,
its cheap perfume clinging
to the curve of my shoulder.
The stream of water washes it away,
replaces the pungency of gin and olives
with shampoo and soap,
but it does not dilute the fingerprints,
does not scrub the impressions
of your thumb and fingers
from the concave of my back
from the arc of my jaw that last night
smelled only of a ten-minute shower

X-ray Clinic, Wednesday Morning

Half-naked in my closet-like waiting room,
and sitting with the curtain open
I watch the white, soft-shoed feet of technicians
fly across floors without sound; they speak
to each other in an avian language:
chirps uttered between gulps of coffee
and the rustle of papers.
Monotone music pumped through the waiting area echoes
the dull thud of blood
squeezed through my featherless body.

This thin robe is all that separates me
from the mechanical hum and antiseptic chill
rushing down from the vents,
down hallway branches.
Other patients shuffle past
but we cannot make eye contact,
cannot lift our lids to share apprehension;
immediately our eyes dart downward
like scared birds.

I sit with my arms crossed, cold,
and wish for wings, wonder about the oddly
smiling man who walks past me with eyes
focused on me like a worm. When he passes,
I follow the flight path down, see the familiar
pinkness of my bald breasts hanging useless,
exposed in the armholes of my gown.

All Poetry By Barbara Fletcher