The Petrichor Gazette

On Wednesday,

after my dermatologist had finished up

scratching my skin like a child’s chalkboard,

and the apothecary had placed a bay leaf under my tongue,

the optician found a mist of polluting forbearance,

a shadowing pessimism

bifocals needed, to see every possible opportunity.

The masseuse wordlessly pours ‘Restful Relaxation’ oil in the corner, without asking for preference,

(acting on necessity)

before the dentist can tell me that decay mostly comes from the inside, some petrified, rotting core.

A cardiologist will examine the rabbit heart funding blood like it’s smacking the edge of athletic greatness and the physician presses an organ donor card

into clammy palms, telling me to

think about it.

Staring at the translucent skeleton in the reception, waiting for an educational use.

In the allergy tests I came up clean, except for a summer hayfever and a mild reaction to commitment,

and I waited for the gyno to tell me

all the pills did indeed flip my womb inside out.

In the foyer of the hospital, after the smoker’s area for dripping IV’s and cardiovascular disease and the visiting room so wrought with death and news of living, past the food court and the cosmetics supply,

there’s always a faux brick box of wildflowers,

a solitary planter, flora so proud

and nitrogen rich it is no wonder there

is a medicine greater than their internal landscapes,

veins clotted with sunlight.