The green tinge starts spreading over my countenance
Like swamp gas smelling of onions
I’m resisting the urge to punch her
Trying to decide between bawling my eyes out or boxing her ears
I ask her for the details, the dainty drops of paint
The eyelashes of the Mona Lisa
She gives me the brush strokes
The basics, the summary
And spreads the results on the table
Fanning out like spilt milk.
I’m gazing at the data and the cold, metal numbers
Wishing I had never taken medical science classes
Or asked the doctors
What all of this meant
Back when I promised myself laughingly that the conclusion
Would only be good.