I can see your lips begin
to manufacture the words;
when I use the speculum,
no bats burst from the cervix.
I do not have to push past
her labia like cobwebs,
use a torch to look
for the coffins of her ovaries.

I blame Anne Rice for this,
encouraging people to become
vampires so they can look good
and do it forever.

She never mentioned
the blood it takes
to stem the atrophy
of Kegel muscles,
the willpower to look
interested, the broken
clock hand bruising.

Most vampires know this,
play with blood and knives
but Dracula wears anachronism
like a cock ring.

Some days, the patient
wishes she wept wooden stakes,
or pushed her sister into his teeth.

I never ask why; my job
deals with hows, whens,
what ifs, and agains.
I'm no bartender and
the last time I checked
taking confession
was a sacrament.

I do this pro bono; it helps
when delivering diagnoses
to my living patients,
leave ultrasounds like
love letters, cancers
like unwritten endings,
STI test results like
second chances.

You will learn, no matter
what you decide to be,
that sometimes when
delivering the news,
you need to dance.

---

J. Bradley writes from Orlando, FL and blogs at Failure Loves Company.