Maureen Thorson
Gold Star
The doctors,
before healing,
must first uncover
my disease,
a trial that proceeds
by means of tests
resembling
torture.
The difference is
I’ve signed
a waiver,
so as they select
the ideal needle
for each ordeal,
I can think,
I signed up for this,
can think it
as my vision slips
from the ceiling’s
cheerful posters
to the widening eyes
of the frantic tech,
can hear her wails
as I succumb
to the precise
adverse reaction
the waiver
warned about.
And after unblinking
minutes spent
watching there
my object self,
my fleshly self,
I pulled through
into what we
hoped would be
a future. I’m good,
you see, at tests.
I’ve never
missed a class,
not the ones
that repeat:
same jaundiced
lance, same
dutiful suture,
not even the ones
with the miniature
concrete tamper.
I’ll ruin
this curve yet,
110 percent
and extra credit
at enduring
whatever
has approval
at the end.
It’s a kind
of grading, after all—
I worry at my worth,
and worrying, dissect
the glint within
this subsumed self—
the sort I’d think
physicians
of your skill
would hurry to preserve,
or better still,
perfect.
Maureen Thorson is the author of two books of poetry, My Resignation (Shearsman 2014) and Applies to Oranges (Ugly Duckling Presse 2011), as well as a number of chapbooks, most recently The Woman, The Mirror, the Eye (Bloof 2015). She is at work on a book-length essay about everything. Visit her at maureenthorson.com.