The Oncologist

by Marion Galliath

A funny little man
mismatched suit of rumpled plaid
pink shirt frayed at the collar
a stained yellow tie pinions your throat
your dusty skin and slick hair drizzling
eggshell flakes don't matter
but your textbook words have the power
to shrink me into bite size pieces that
your chew and spit out

I am left shriveled
spirit dead in the cracks of your examining floor
purveyor of poisons
little vials of death and life
Vincristin, Cytoxan, Adriamycin,
5-Florouracil, Prednisone, Methotrexate
I hear you through tissue walls as I compose my face
an automoton, you recite:
It's the progress of the disease
a stricken voice catalogs symptoms:
bloated abdomen, sleepless nights, weight loss, loss of energy,
loss of hope

Your lizzard eyes blink back:
It's the progress of the disease
a silent scream careens around the corners of my cubicle to split my face
crackling sheets curl
cold clamps coil
I await you

I heard your patient was buried last Friday
I glimpsed her daughter's fragmented face at dancing class
it was the progress of the disease

A shriek explodes my skull littering bony fragments
on your swabs and butterfly needles
the door to my cell opens
your Hippocratic oath is stuck under the heel of your platform shoes