Black Cherry Soap

Days after I did not drop dead
in the university carpark, but drove,
praying for each shallow intake
to turn the next traffic light green –

I saw my lungs block a screen in protest,
listened to a swamp monster thrash
about in my right ventricle, heard
Milk-And-Two-Sugars-Man in the next room over
tell everyone about that bloody Jacinda

The squeak of the white sandwich cart
became distinct from the oximeter trolley,
earplugs became as worthy as the entry of the
Don’t-Expect-Too-Much-Too-Soon-Consultant
in my three square metres of pretend tent.

My butt-gapped-gown mistimed only once
when it should flap down to the showers –
exposed to Mr-Milk-and-Two-Sugars erupting
in keep-them-dogies-movin’ in the second cubicle.

You arrived with underwear so unclinical
that my skin sang, my well-worn cat nightshirt wrapped
around a half-thinned bar of black cherry soap
bound inside a zip-lock bag. Later, I paused slightly too long
when I opened it – Milk-Man smug as a drug dog roared
through the doorway What’s that bloody girly stink?
but Trainee-Nurse Ani was already in Hanami
and Liz-Leg-Pinned-In-Twelve-Places smiled
wide as the coming summer

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Viv Smith completed an MA in creative writing at the IIML (2013). She has published in: takahē, Blackmail Press, Deep South, Junctures: The Journal for Thematic Dialogue, 4th Floor, The Quick Brown Fox and Bonsai: Best Small Stories from Aotearoa New Zealand. Occasionally words allow her to shepherd them.