The tests were routine as a leg wax now,
no greeting from the male medics chatting like Saturday girls,
Data will appear here; the dozing machine opens its eye, blinks twice,
student following his mentor’s actions with the awe of a Dr. Who’s assistant.
Hitch your skirt up, you curse the pubic hairs
self-seeded down your inner thigh,
but seeing the men momentarily freeze in DVD pause,
inwardly chuckle at capturing their full attention.
ECG gecko pads affixed to your legs, silence,
as the current twitches sinews in a mini Mr. Universe display,
then a bolt deep into muscles that jump at each electrical bite,
gripping the couch you hold onto lemon cake at Café Valerie afterwards.
There’s a significant change there, do you see?
Student’s pen sprints across the pages of his notebook,
a sudden lift drop in your stomach,
exiting senior medic tosses over his shoulder
Your consultant will discuss the results with you.
Anticipating a death row wait of weeks,
an ambulance siren in your head I need to know now.
Instead you shuffle to the hospital entrance shackled by fear.
Fiona Sinclair‘s first full collection Ladies Who Lunch was published by Lapwing Press, Belfast in 2015. She is the editor of the on line poetry magazine Message in a Bottle.